The instructor raised a hand.

“Echo Squad. Platform Three.”

The arena hummed to life—stone plates shifting, locking into place as glyphs illuminated the floor in a hexagonal pattern. Arc-lines traced around the outer rim, pulsing faintly with blue light.

Across from them, a squad from Spire Two stepped onto the platform—taller, older, marked by flame-stitched robes and polished gear.

Their leader cracked his neck once and smirked.

“They sent the ghosts.”

Yolti rolled her shoulders.

“Ghosts hit harder when they’ve been forgotten.”

Kaelen glanced at Zephryn.

“Hold pulse until called. No overchanneling. This isn’t combat—it’s calibration.”

Selka didn’t speak. But her stance said everything.

And Zephryn?

He wasn’t focused on the opponents.

He was listening to the hum.

“Begin.”

The spar started slow—tactical, measured.

Selka veered left, flanking. Yolti moved midline, blade drawn but held low. Kaelen stood grounded at the front, pulse locked around his gauntlet.

Zephryn moved last.

He ducked, dodged, kept his hands half-raised but didn’t strike.

One of the Spire Two students sent a pulse slash toward Yolti—light-based, fast.

Kaelen intercepted.

Another came for Zephryn. Flame surge—arc wide, too slow.

He should’ve stepped aside.

Instead, he absorbed it.

The flame hit, and the glyph on his chest flickered—not in pain, but in recognition.

Something shifted beneath the platform.

Only Zephryn felt it.

A low, steady vibration—like something asleep beneath the stone had exhaled for the first time in years.

The instructor narrowed his eyes.

“Pause the match.”

Zephryn staggered back one step.

“Bubbalor,” he whispered.

Not loud.

Not panicked.

Just awake.

From the edge of the platform, the scarf in Zephryn’s satchel lifted.

Bubbalor uncurled slowly—no glow, no sound, just presence.

One eye opened.

Then the other.

Students around the arena began to notice.

Instructors started to rise.

Bubbalor’s body arched, spine rolling like a ripple through stone and breath and flame.

Zephryn’s hum synced—accidentally.

And the glyph in his chest ignited.

Blue.

Silver.

Cracked.

The match stopped.

But the air didn’t settle.

Because Bubbalor didn’t shrink back into sleep.

He leapt onto Zephryn’s shoulder—

And purred.

Up in the control booth, a Doctrine observer scribbled something into a logbook.

“Subject Zephryn. Glyph Sync Event. Forbidden resonance potential confirmed.”

A second observer leaned in.

“Should we intervene?”

The first closed the book.

“No.

Not yet.”