Aiden Crest's light had always known where the center was.
Him.
That was not arrogance.
Not exactly.
The world had taught him through applause, crisis, prophecy, route pressure, combat instinct, Church expectation, noble education, and the quiet way people stepped aside when gold light gathered under his skin.
The hero stood at the center.
The light followed.
Everyone else learned where to look.
Old Arena C had disrupted that.
Now, in the lower practice cloister, Aiden stood with both hands raised and no light between them.
Sweat slid down his jaw.
His expression looked personally betrayed by his own Aether.
Niko stood beside a chalk circle full of pulse markings. Elara had grown three thin root stakes along the floor. Seraphina watched from the healing bench, arms folded. Veylan oversaw from the doorway. I sat on a stone block with my right hand resting under a warm compression wrap and my left holding a cup I could mostly feel.
Mostly was progress.
