Althéa approached the fracture, leaving behind those last two years spent fighting.

  Already two years… she thought. But how long before I have to fight again?

  She disappeared into those places where she had first appeared knowing nothing. She had then been only a sergeant, just newly arrived, before climbing the ranks at a terrifying speed. She had had to learn how to handle firearms, but that had never been a problem: she had trained in combat since she was tall enough to hold a weapon. It had become second nature.

  She was nineteen now.

  For those who had remained in reality, her Trial may have lasted only a few hours, perhaps a few days. But for her, it had been an eternity.

  Everything within her had changed.

  The arrogant and nervous girl who had entered the Trial was dead. In her place now stood a composed, mature woman, recognized by her peers. Not for her lineage. But for her leadership. For her kindness.

  Without Kael, I would not have survived, she thought. If he had not forced me down from my pedestal...

  She sighed one last time, then stepped through the portal.

  Her foot landed on sand. The sand of the Colosseum. She was back.

  She swept her gaze across the arena, searching for landmarks. What she saw was blood. Blood, everywhere on the sand.

  What a waste… she thought. All those young Bearers… dead…

  Her gaze hardened.

  But something else caught her attention. A fracture. Still active. Right beside her.

  It was immense. Several times larger than the others still open.

  Her body shuddered. Her skin prickled. She instinctively stepped back.

  “What is happening…?” she murmured, not truly expecting an answer.

  Voices echoed from the stands.

  “It’s the princess! She’s come out of her Trial!”

  A guard ran toward her, visibly alarmed.

  “Princess! Follow me! Don’t stay in the arena!”

  She did not resist, still unsettled by what she had just seen.

  But that fracture… what does it mean?

  She allowed herself to be guided across the arena to the steps leading to the upper stands.

  Her father and her mother were waiting for her at the top, on their thrones.

  The guard did not dare climb any further. He stopped there, leaving Althéa to continue alone.

  She placed her foot on the first step… when an arm gently wrapped around her neck.

  She turned her head.

  “Vélara?” Althéa said with a faint smile. “It’s been a while.”

  Vélara, smiling brightly, replied:

  “Princess! Delighted to see you in one piece! I had no doubt you would succeed. But tell me… how long did you spend in there? And what is that outfit?”

  “Two years,” Althéa replied. “And this outfit… it’s that of a land army commander. The standard uniform.”

  Vélara blinked several times, then burst out laughing.

  “You managed to become a commander in two years? You’ll tell me that story later. The king and queen are waiting for you up there.”

  Their gaze turned toward the two silhouettes seated at the top of the stands, on their white marble thrones.

  Her father’s gaze was as hard as ever. Glacial.

  Her mother, however, had already risen, and was descending the steps quickly toward her daughter.

  Althéa climbed.

  Upon reaching her, the queen embraced her without hesitation.

  Surprised, Althéa remained frozen, arms stiff, unsure how to react.

  She felt her mother’s tears fall against her neck.

  Then she embraced her in return.

  A few seconds passed.

  Then the queen, eyes moist, pulled back from the embrace and gently took her daughter’s face in her hands, a sincere smile on her lips.

  Never had Althéa seen her so emotional.

  The queen seemed to be inspecting her, as if to ensure she was truly real.

  “You’ve grown, haven’t you?” she asked softly.

  Althéa nodded, a smile on her lips.

  “It’s possible, yes.”

  The queen continued, without releasing her face:

  “You look like a woman now. Your features are sharper. Your cheeks less round. And your gaze… your gaze carries a maturity I had never seen.” —she examined her again— “How long?”

  “I spent two years in the Trial,” Althéa replied. “I am 19 now.”

  “Two years...” the queen repeated, nodding. “Come. Let us see your father. And you will have to explain why you are wearing such… unroyal attire.”

  Althéa did not respond. Her outfit, indeed, bore no sign of royalty. The uniform was green, very sober, decorated with a few medals she deemed unimportant. Simple military boots, polished by her own hand that morning, and a beret properly adjusted over her tightly bound hair. Nothing flashy. Nothing of an heir.

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  Together they climbed the remaining steps, up to the man seated at the very top. He seemed carved from ice and stone. No emotion showed on his face.

  Upon reaching him, Althéa simply said:

  “Father.”

  She did not kneel. She remained upright. Hands behind her back. Straight as a marble statue.

  The king frowned slightly.

  “You have changed,” he said in a neutral tone.

  Simple words. But they meant everything.

  He had understood. Althéa no longer presented herself as a princess, but as a queen in the making.

  Vélara joined them, climbing the last steps in turn. Althéa turned, saw her staring at the fracture, still active, humming at the center of the arena.

  “What is happening with that fracture?” she asked. “It is not normal.”

  The queen let out a discreet sigh, casting a glance toward the strange phenomenon. But it was the king who answered, in a tone still neutral, though tinged with slight venom:

  “It is your ‘friend’ — the Ombrevu.”

  Althéa raised an eyebrow.

  “It is Kael’s fracture?”

  Vélara, who had sat down a few steps below, replied, amused:

  “I don’t know what he’s doing in there, but it’s causing quite a mess. All the Latents had to evacuate the perimeter.”

  She tapped an empty spot beside her.

  “Come sit. Your Trame is about to manifest, and… that passage is not very pleasant.”

  Althéa obeyed and sat down. Her gaze remained fixed on the fracture, massive, oppressive.

  “And Lucanis?” she asked.

  “He hasn’t come out yet.” Vélara replied.

  The number of active fractures was slowly decreasing. Some Bearers emerged, immediately escorted outside. Others snapped shut in a burst of blood.

  More dead…

  An intense headache struck Althéa. She clenched her jaw, frowned, and brought her hand to her forehead, as if to chase away the pain.

  “It’s starting…” Vélara murmured.

  She raised her voice:

  “Bring the Veilwards, just in case!”

  The Voilars arrived a few minutes later, dressed in their ethereal veils, silent as always.

  Althéa’s entire body trembled. She was sweating, curled in on herself, breath short. She was hyperventilating.

  The queen stepped forward, worried. But Vélara gestured for her not to approach.

  The king observed the scene intensely, without saying a word.

  “The process is not pleasant,” Vélara explained. “Do not try to push it away. Welcome it. Let the pain come without suppressing it. And above all… breathe.”

  Althéa removed her beret and placed it beside her. The pain was rising, unbearable.

  Her thoughts raced.

  She thought she heard voices.

  ((Trame detected… Innate Trame… Evaluation… Trame evaluated.))

  Althéa jolted, pressing her hands against her temples.

  “I have… I have something speaking in my head!” she said, panicked, breathless.

  “It is normal,” Vélara answered calmly. “Do not panic. Your subconscious is manifesting. It is reading you from within.”

  The inner voice resumed, implacable, synthetic.

  A strange warmth began to surge through her veins. She felt it run through her muscles, her organs, every nerve vibrating like a string drawn too tight.

  ((Trame: The Substantial Shaper.))

  Her head felt ready to burst. She clenched her teeth. Her breathing quickened.

  ((Clarification of Trame in progress…))

  “What is it telling you?” Vélara asked, without taking her eyes off her.

  Althéa, face tense, eyes closed, replied between spasms:

  “It… it is evaluating my Trame. It is analyzing it… it is speaking to me.”

  The voice imposed itself, cold and deep, as if engraved in metal:

  ((Innate Trame: The Substantial Shaper.

  Role: extractor of dormant martial forms.

  Effect: voluntary transmutation of all matter into functional weapons.

  The Trame invents nothing. It reveals and exploits the combat potential contained within substance.))

  Althéa felt as though the world were twisting around her. Her own body was slipping from her control. Her skin burned. Every heartbeat resonated in her ears like the strike of a gong.

  Althéa attempted to stand, with difficulty.

  A golden aura escaped from her, cascading like a waterfall.

  The queen stepped back, by reflex.

  The king remained marble-still, his gaze fixed.

  Vélara, fascinated, watched the Elan escape from the princess’s body, hypnotized.

  “There it is…” she breathed.

  “Veilwards, be ready!”

  Althéa finally managed to straighten. Still trembling, holding her head between her hands, she took a step… then staggered.

  She stumbled, placing her hand on a stone seat to steady herself.

  The voice rang out again in her mind:

  ((Extraction attempt in progress…))

  Suddenly, she felt it.

  The martial potential contained within the object.

  She felt everything it could become.

  Every possibility. Every use. Every form hidden within the matter.

  The flow passed through her.

  The golden Elan, which was gathering around her like living vapor, condensed at once. It concentrated in her palm, then spread into the seat she was touching.

  The object vibrated, trembled… then dislocated into a whirl of matter.

  Before the stunned gazes, the fragments of the seat reassembled.

  And, in a rustle of energy, a brutal, crude, heavy mace took shape in Althéa’s hand.

  She held it firmly, breathless.

  ((Extraction complete… Seat-mace created.))

  Althéa looked at the unfamiliar object in her hand, stunned. Then she turned a panicked gaze toward Vélara… who was smiling.

  She touched her head: the pain had disappeared.

  But the golden aura continued to flow from her, rising in a divine cascade toward the sky.

  She turned her head. The seat she had touched had vanished. Nothing remained of it.

  “Vélara…” she breathed, lost.

  Vélara cast a glance toward the Voilars.

  “Give her a Stabilizing Veil,” she ordered.

  They obeyed immediately. One of them placed the translucent fabric over Althéa’s shoulders.

  The golden aura evaporated in a rain of sparks.

  Althéa curled into the cloak, exhausted.

  “What happened…?” she asked in a weary voice.

  The queen approached without hesitation and held her daughter against her. Althéa trembled, curled up, still clutching her mace.

  Vélara approached in turn, a broad smile on her lips. She gently took the mace from Althéa’s hands, weighing it, and made a few broad swings.

  “That is quite a Trame you have there, princess.”

  She stopped, fixed Althéa from head to toe, her gaze deep, almost absent. Her eyes seemed to probe her soul.

  “I would almost be jealous of such a Trame,” she murmured. “It is fascinating. You can create weapons from any matter… And your Elan…”

  She paused for a moment, looked at her again.

  “It is so pure. So fluid. I have never seen anything like it. And you are only a Revealed…”

  Althéa, now calmer, remained nestled against her mother. She barely trembled anymore.

  “Your Elan is as pure as that of a Primant…” Vélara concluded.

  She handed the mace back to Althéa, who gently set it beside her.

  Vélara continued:

  “Now, tell me: what is your Dominant Trait?”

  Althéa looked at her, trembling.

  “How am I supposed to know?” she asked, hesitant.

  Vélara sat down and gestured for the two women to imitate her.

  But the queen spoke, irritated.

  “Do you not think you are asking a little too much of her? She is weakened, you can see that clearly!”

  Vélara looked at her directly.

  “A Dominant Trait changes a Trame Bearer’s life forever. The sooner she knows it, the better.”

  The queen looked away, furious, but said nothing.

  Vélara turned her gaze back to Althéa, softer now.

  “Ask your subconscious. It knows. Simply ask the question.”

  Althéa swallowed. Stared into the void. Wrapped herself a little more tightly in the Stabilizing Veil.

  She thought:

  What is my Dominant Trait?

  The inner voice answered immediately, clear, like a sentence:

  ((Dominant Trait: The Garden of Mnemosyne.))

  ((Every contained emotion takes root in the world.))

  She slowly lifted her head and spoke in a trembling voice:

  “My Dominant Trait is called… the Garden of Mnemosyne.”

  She inhaled, hesitated.

  “I do not really understand the passive ability linked to it. My subconscious simply tells me… that every emotion I contain… takes root in the world.”

  Vélara made a slight grimace.

  “Indeed, you do not seem to have a very pleasant notable trait… It is surprising, for an Unyielding. Generally, their traits are more balanced on the quality/flaw scale.”

  She shrugged.

  “That… looks more like a Fragmented trait, that thing.”

  Then a faint cracking sound was heard, right beside the immense fracture.

  All eyes turned.

  A man in a thick red suit had just emerged from it, staggering, a huge pack on his back, two weapons strapped at his waist. A short beard covered his marked face. He moved slowly, legs heavy.

  Vélara narrowed her eyes.

  “That is Lucanis,” she announced. “The heir of Velcrann. He is out.”

  The queen, immediately grasping the political stakes, gave her orders:

  “Guard! Revealed! Bring the heir of the Velcrann here, immediately.”

  Althéa lifted her head slightly. A spark passed through her eyes. Her voice, weak but firm, rose:

  “Thank you… He is not dead.”

  A smile formed on her face.

  And, for once, it did not fade.

  It remained.

  Engraved.