Jasmine’s breath came ragged, each inhale scraping like fire against her lungs. The trial chamber had emptied of its illusions, but her body carried the proof of every phantom blade, every whispered curse, every shadow’s bite. She stood barefoot on the obsidian floor, trembling, her palms coated in a thin sheen of blood. The High Council had vanished without a word, their verdict sealed in silence, and yet the mark burned on her wrist—a brand of survival.

She had endured the soul trial. ...