The ritual begins without witnesses.
That is how it has always been meant to happen. No audience. No council. No voices weighing what I am worth against what I might become. The stone chamber is silent except for my breathing and the low hum etched into the circle beneath my feet. The markings glow faintly, not silver this time, but something deeper. Older. Like light remembered rather than cast.
The Guardian stands at the edge when I enter.
It looks thinner now. Less anchored. Its form wavers as if the world has already begun to let it go.
“You will not remain,” I say quietly.
“No,” it agrees. “I was never meant to.”
“What happens to you,” I ask.
It tilts its head, that familiar gesture of almost sympathy, as if it has practiced the expression for centuries without ever fully ownin
