Serena turned to look at the platforms she could see. Fin’s face was drawn, searching his memory, coming up empty.

"I don’t know," Aeron said. It visibly pained him to say it. Serena appreciated the vulnerability.

Hyran’s platform was angled so she could see only the edge of his shoulder. She couldn’t read him. Maelor was facing away entirely.

The two people most likely to know this answer couldn’t speak, and the people who could speak couldn’t tell if they knew it.

The heat beneath them pulsed. A reminder. The voice didn’t repeat questions and it didn’t wait forever.

Serena made the calculation. Her platform had two correct answers already. It was turned inward, locked, stable.

"Think my name," she called. "I’ll take it."

Dex’s head turned towards her. His eyes said everything his mouth didn’t need to: are you sure?

She did not return the look, and kept her gaze forward.

She wasn’t. She had fragments. The Fourth Accord was a period she’d studied tangentially through Frostborne texts.

"The chosen may answer."

"The expedition was led by Talwyn Greymarch," she answered. "The classification system was the Greymarch Index, a seven-tier framework based on aetheric resonance signatures." She paused. Her confidence was thinning. "The seal was authorized under Article Thirty-One of the Fourth Accord’s Supplementary Provisions."

The chamber held its breath.

"Incorrect."

Then the stone slab beneath her and Dex’s feet cracked. The sound echoed off the stone walls.

The slab lurched, tilting two degrees, and Dex grabbed her arm to keep her from sliding off. The voice offered no correction. No explanation. Just the verdict and the damage.

Serena stared at the crack. The lava beneath it churned, visible now, alive, and the heat coming through it was enough to make her eyes water. One more wrong answer from either of them and the slab would break. Both of them would fall.

She looked at Dex. He looked at her.

No words were needed. The matebond was carrying everything: her frustration at being wrong, his refusal to blame her for it, the shared understanding that their margin for error had just been cut to zero.

His hand was still on her arm from catching her. He didn’t let go.

"Well," he said, his voice carrying the specific lightness of a man staring at lava through a crack in his floor and choosing to be amused about it. "Let’s avoid doing that again."

From across the chamber, Gav called, "Serena missed one, if anyone didn’t hear. There was cracking."

"We’re okay," Dex replied. "Thank you for your concern."

"Define okay."

"We’re standing on a platform with a crack in it over lava and we have zero room for error. That kind of fine."

"Sounds about right."

Maelor was vibrating in fury. He knew that answer and Serena would be getting an earful as soon as he could speak.

The voice returned, and this time it addressed the group.

"Name the three elemental substrates required for stable aetheric crystallization, and identify the temperature variance that destabilizes the lattice in each."

Gav glanced sideways at Hyran. The mage’s entire body had gone rigid with what Gav could only describe as joy. Pure, uncut, academic joy. The kind of expression a man makes when he has been waiting his entire life for exactly this question.

"Think Hyran," Gav called. "Everyone."

"The chosen may answer."

Hyran answered so fast the words nearly overlapped with the voice’s permission. "Calcium aetherate, iron-bonded silicate, and refined void ash. Six degrees, eleven degrees, and four percent ambient humidity, respectively." He paused. "Every failed crystallization experiment in recorded history took place in a coastal laboratory. I have been saying this for fifteen years."

"Correct."

"I would also like to add that Nightspire’s published crystallization tables contain a rounding error in the silicate column that I submitted a correction for in 4018 and never received a response."

The temple did not care about Nightspire’s correspondence backlog.

Gav and Hyran’s platform groaned and rotated inward, locking into position. Two down.

"What is the maximum number of simultaneous ward layers a single caster can maintain before cognitive fracture, and which theorem governs the decay rate between layers seven and twelve?"

"Think Maelor," Hyran called. "Let’s hope he knows this."

He was the last one to answer a question and his platform would need to turn eventually.

"The chosen may answer."

Maelor answered with the controlled precision of a man who had been teaching this material for two decades and had been forced to remain silent while less qualified individuals answered lesser questions.

"Fourteen for a standard mage. Seventeen for an master caster. Decay between layers seven and twelve is governed by the Aldric-Venthaal Theorem." He paused. "Which I wrote the definitive commentary on. The temple is quoting my own work back to me."

"Correct."

Maelor’s platform turned.

"No fair," Gav said. "Everyone else had to answer two."

"I co-authored a response to that commentary," Maelor shot back, as if that was what Gav had commented on. It wasn’t.

"You wrote a rebuttal," Hyran corrected. "It was rejected by peer review."

"It was rejected by you. You were the reviewer."

"Correctly rejected."

"Hyran."

"Correctly."

His slab locked into position. Four platforms. All facing inward. The circle was complete.

The lava beneath them dimmed. Cooled. Darkened from molten orange to deep, sullen red. The platforms shuddered once, then began to move, forming stepping stones.

When the movement stopped, Serena and Dex’s cracked slab sat closest to the far corridor. Then Fin and Aeron’s. Then Hyran and Gav’s. Maelor’s was last, the furthest from the exit.

Fresh air poured from the corridor. Cool. Clean. The first breath in hours that didn’t taste like sulfur.

Every person in the chamber arrived at the same math at the same time. Everyone had to cross the cracked slab to get out.

"One. Two. Jump," Dex said, not letting go of her hand.

They jumped, landing on solid ground on the other side.

Fin and Aeron were next, leaping from their slab onto the cracked one. It groaned under the impact. Neither hesitated. They cleared it in one stride and hit the corridor floor.

Hyran and Gav had two jumps. Gav landed on Fin’s abandoned slab, then the cracked one, then the corridor. Hyran followed with the measured precision of a man who refused to let lava rush him. He carried a piece of stolen temple stone in one hand and his dignity in the other.

Maelor was last. Three jumps. The furthest run.

"I want everyone to know," he said, jumping onto solid ground, "that I answered the hardest question in the chamber, alone, on a solo platform, and I received zero applause."

"You received a correct," Hyran said.

"A correct is the minimum acceptable outcome. I wanted recognition."

"You have it."

"From whom?"

"From the temple. Which is the only audience that mattered."

Maelor considered this. Found it insufficient. Followed them into the corridor anyway.

The bridge behind them crumbled the moment the last boot cleared it, stone falling silently into the dark below.