The platform did not descend to another gleaming district or floating garden. It descended through a layer of the Nexus that seemed to be infrastructure—a realm of humming conduits of energy, vast silent data-vaults, and the geometric roots of the more glorious spires above. The light grew dimmer, the air cooler.
Finally, they stopped before a simple, arched doorway set into a wall of seamless, aged grey stone. It looked forgotten, a service entrance to reality itself. There was no sign, no guardian, only the doorway.
The blue-sigiled Facilitator gestured. "The entrance to the Cloister of Veiled Intent. Your mentor awaits within. Your Nexus tokens will grant you access to your assigned quarters and the Cloister's private stacks. Further instructions will come from within." With that, the platform withdrew, leaving them standing in the silent, subterranean dimness.
Echo touched the grey token to the door. It swung inward without a sound.
They stepped into stillness.
The Cloister was not a tower. It was a library-world. They stood on a narrow stone walkway that circled the inner wall of an impossibly vast, cylindrical shaft. Across the open center, thousands of other walkways, landings, and bridges formed a complex three-dimensional lattice, all built from the same smooth, grey stone. And every available surface—walls, ceilings, even the underside of bridges—was covered in shelves. Endless shelves, stretching up into gloom and down into darkness, holding not books, but an endless array of artifacts: crystals, scrolls, jars of strange substances, inert weapons, musical instruments, unidentifiable machinery. The air smelled of dust, ozone, and a profound, patient silence.
It was not grand. It was deep.
A single figure stood on their walkway, waiting. He was an older man, or appeared to be, with short-cropped grey hair and a lean frame clad in simple, dark grey robes. His face was weathered, his eyes a calm, observant grey. He held no weapon, radiated no obvious power. He looked like a senior archivist.
"Novitiates," he said, his voice a dry, quiet rasp. "I am Joram. Your mentor. Welcome to the Memorate. The Cloister's memory." He gestured to the infinite shelves. "Every object here is a report. A history. A failure. A secret. Taken, borrowed, or donated from a thousand-thousand realities. We do not write our histories. We collect them."
He began walking along the curving path, not waiting to see if they followed. "You chose the grey path. The path of context. The Spire of Law believes power flows from authority. The Forge of Artifice believes power flows from creation. We of the Cloister believe power flows from understanding. And understanding requires two things: the right information, and the right position from which to use it."
He stopped at a section of shelf holding a collection of identical, plain grey stones. "Your first lesson. Observe."
He picked up a stone and handed it to Echo. It was cool, smooth, and utterly inert. "What is it?"
Echo reached with his senses. His Law-Sense detected nothing. His Bloodline felt nothing. "A stone."
"Correct." Joram took it back and placed it on a small, unmarked pedestal set into the shelf. The stone glowed with a soft, internal light, and a holographic scene played above it: a brutal, silent battle between insectoid aliens on a desert world, seen from the fixed perspective of the stone on the ground. "It is a Witness Stone from the Hive-Wars of Xylos Prime. A passive recorder. Worthless alone. Invaluable in context, on the right pedestal, which is a decoder."
He moved on. "You are Witness Stones. You carry unique perspectives. The Bond is your decoder. The Cloister will teach you how to find the right pedestals."
He led them to a small, open alcove off the walkway. It contained five simple cots, a table, and a basin of perpetually clear water. "Your quarters. Do not expect luxury. The Cloister provides only what is necessary: space to think, knowledge to digest, and missions to apply them."
"Missions?" Leyla asked, her eyes still scanning the dizzying shelves.
"Indeed. Your first is simple. Observation." Joram pointed upward. "In six cycles, a minor diplomatic conclave will occur in the Polished Arium, three levels above the Law Spire's public galleries. Representatives from the Star-Drake Consortium and the Mycelium Entente will negotiate a trade dispute over quantum-fungal spores. It is, officially, meaningless."
Kiera's tails twitched. "Officially?"
Joram gave a faint, ghost of a smile. "The Star-Drake negotiator is secretly assessing the Entente's defenses for a client. The Mycelium delegate is using the spores as a carrier for a psychic memetic agent. The Confluence Authority is aware of both deceptions and will allow them to proceed to see who intervenes. Your mission is to attend as unaffiliated observers. Observe everything. Then, tell me not what happened, but why it was allowed to happen, and who truly benefited."
It was not a test of power. It was a test of perception.
"Your tokens will grant you access to the public galleries," Joram continued. "Use your abilities, but do not be detected. You are stones. Be still. Be silent. Record." He turned to leave.
"Wait," Echo said. "That's it? No training? No instruction on... Cloister techniques?"
Joram paused. "You are a Sanguine Lord who stabilized a reality wound. She is a Phantom Monarch. A Spatial Archivist. A Resonance Core. A Truth-Weaver. Bonded on a level that baffles our Cosmologic Engine." He looked at each of them. "You do not need me to teach you what you are. You need to learn where to be, and when to be it. The mission will teach you that. We will debrief after."
He vanished into the shadows between two towering shelves of crystalline skulls.
The Sovereign's Circle was alone in the immense, silent Memorate.
They had their path. They had their first, baffling mission. They had a place to sleep.
They were no longer warriors or stewards. They were Novitiates.
And their education had just begun.