The heavy bronze doors of the master pavilion at Falcon Ridge swung shut, their locking bolts dropping into granite recesses with a dull, final thud that sealed the chamber against the outside world.
Caleb Conway turned the secondary iron key in the central ward array, activating the perimeter formations the Crimson Falcon faction had abandoned only hours before. The change in atmosphere was instantaneous. Deep beneath the foundations of the peak, four natural spirit springs converged into a subterranean reservoir, pumping concentrated environmental vitality upward through the polished stone floorboards. The air inside the cultivation chamber was so dense with spiritual energy that breathing felt like drinking cold spring water, carrying three times the atmospheric potency of the Lunar Pa
