Syrien POV
I feel the wards change long before the fortress comes into view.
It isn’t dramatic. There’s no flare of warning runes, no violent recoil of magic testing my presence. Blake doesn’t build defenses that scream unless he wants them to. This shift is quieter—subtle enough that most wouldn’t notice unless they’ve lived alongside dragonfire long enough to recognize when it’s being held instead of unleashed.
The outer wards are still lethal. Still sharp. Still ready.
But their rhythm has softened.
That alone tells me everything.
I slow as I approach the final concealed passage, letting my magic bleed outward in a careful, familiar pattern so the wards recognize me instead of snapping shut. The stone door grinds open just enough to admit me, then seals behind my back with a whisp
