They were led not to the training pits, but to the Master's private hall. It had changed. The sparse, stone room was now filled with brass clocks, steaming pipes, and blueprints of the Iron City.
Master Vane sat at his desk, but he looked older, his skin sallow. Standing behind him was a man Kaelen recognized from the Alaric documents: Grand Architect Silas.
"You completed the Mark," Vane said, his voice a ghost of its former self. "But you were reckless. You destroyed the manor's steam system."
"Alaric wasn't human anymore, Master," Kaelen countered, his fifty-year-old mind reading the tension in the room. Vane wasn't in command. He was a prisoner in his own seat. "And Oakhaven is planning to hollow out this mountain. Why is their Architect standing in our hall?"
Silas stepped forward, his smile as cold as a surgical blade. "To offer you a future, boy. The Veil is an obsolete weapon. We are turning it into a scalpel—the enforcers of the New Order."