The air shifted around him.
As Riven stepped forward, the chamber itself seemed to breathe—walls of blackened stone rippling outward as though the very space recognized what had occurred. The anchor's pulsing grew stronger, shedding layers of veiled flame until only the purest essence of mana remained, radiating from the skybound spine embedded high above.
Each step Riven took toward the center stirred something ancient.
The floor, once smooth, cracked open with molten veins of lava, tracing pathways that spiraled outward from the base of the anchor like veins leading to a heart. The world had narrowed down to this moment, and Riven could feel it—the weight of centuries pressing against his shoulders, not as a burden, but as acknowledgment.
He had passed the trials.
He had been seen.
And now he would claim what waited.
