GRACE
The Hall of Judgment was colder than I remembered.
Not in temperature — in spirit.
Obsidian pillars loomed around me, etched with the names of every Alpha who had ruled under the High Crown. The floor shimmered with enchantments, truth-binding spells woven into the stone. No lie could survive here. No secret could hide.
Twelve thrones formed a perfect circle, each occupied by an elder of the Celestial Tribunal. Their robes glowed faintly with sigils older than memory. Their faces were carved from centuries of law — unreadable, unyielding.
I stood in the center, my cloak heavy on my shoulders, my heart heavier still.
Alistair was behind me, silent but steady. Ulric stood to my right, shoulders squared, jaw tight. He hadn’t spoken since we entered. I hadn’t either.
The High Elde
