Every Valdrake crest in the lower hall turned black.
Mine first.
The silver void emblem stitched onto my torn academy coat darkened from the edges inward, swallowing its own shine like a wound learning shame. Three visiting banners near the emergency dais followed. Then the academy archive seal marking House Valdrake's old dungeon contributions bled black across the wall.
The hall understood none of it.
That did not stop fear.
Fear never waited for scholarship.
Whispers rose immediately.
Valdrake.
Sacrifice.
Bloodline.
Sera.
Dungeon.
Culprit.
I heard every word because panic had excellent acoustics.
The Echo Warden stood half-emerged from Gate Eleven, its bell-ribcage ringing softly around the memorial stone inside its chest. Seraphine Valdrake Arkhen's name remained visible, carved in white against black.
Not an accident.
No longer hidden in bone corridors.
No longer safe inside my private horror.
Public.
The worst kind of truth.
