The glow inside the sealed door did not open it.

It pulsed once beneath the ancient script, slow and buried, as if something behind the black metal had breathed against the other side. The chamber answered with a faint tremor through the floor, enough to shake frost loose from the carved walls and wake a line of pale light in the mana crystals above. Caelum did not look back. Moses did, briefly, his purple eyes narrowing at the door before his attention returned to the man before him.

Valttair had noticed them, but he had not invited them in.

Caelum slid the loose glove free from his left hand and folded it once before placing it inside his coat. His bare fingers were pale beneath the glacial light, elegant enough to belong to a pianist or a surgeon, which was close enough to the truth if one was willing to be unpleasant about definitions. His right hand followed with the same care. No flourish, no wasted motion. Leather vanished into cloth, and the air around him changed by a degree.

Moses watched the act with the attention of a man who had seen battlefields open, forts burn, and monsters die badly, yet found that small gesture worth respecting.

"I never saw you take those off before a fight," Moses said.

"You never asked properly before."

The corner of Moses’s mouth dragged upward. "So there are manners in you after all."

"There are consequences," Caelum replied. "Manners are only the packaging people prefer."

That pulled a rough breath from Moses that was almost a laugh. He stepped away from the sealed door, each movement dragging a low complaint out of his armor. The chamber was vast enough for giants, but Moses made it feel occupied in a way few men could. He crossed toward the wider stretch of stone to the left, away from the door and its ancient markings, giving their lord’s threshold enough respect not to stain it by accident.

Caelum moved the other way.

He did not hurry. He drifted across the floor with quiet steps, choosing a path where the mana crystals above lost strength behind ribs of carved stone. The shadows there were longer, broken by cracks in the floor and dark metal veins that crawled beneath the frost. Moses noticed. Of course he did. His eyes slid toward the worse-lit side of the chamber, tracked the pillars, the cuts in the floor, the shallow rise in the stone where a man with lighter feet could change direction without warning.

"You pick your ground before the first breath," Moses said. "I suppose I should be flattered."

"You should be aware."

"I am many things, Caelum. Unaware has never been one of them."

Caelum didn’t respond, instead his hands moved.

Two curved daggers appeared from thin air, one in each hand, the blades dark and narrow, made for ribs, wrists, throats, and all the places armor failed to love. They did not look ceremonial. The sort of tools a family like Morgain kept close because killing did not always arrive wearing banners.

Moses invoked his sword.

The sound rolled through the chamber like a gate being dragged open. The weapon was huge, black along the fuller, wide enough to split shields and heavy enough that most men would have required two hands to raise it without embarrassing themselves. Runes carved into the steel sat dull for now, military and blunt, stripped of noble elegance. A war sword. A thing meant for lines of soldiers, beasts with plated hides, and gates that had been rude enough to stand shut.

Moses held it in one hand.

That said enough.

"No killing stroke," Moses said, rolling his neck once. "No maiming past repair. No poison meant to stay in the blood. No steel from me unless you put that little knife of yours somewhere I cannot forgive."

Caelum’s face did not change. "I would never insult you with a permanent poison during a formal spar."

"Temporary poison is allowed, then?"

Caelum answered with nothing.

Above them, from a cracked seam in the ceiling, a tiny piece of frost-bitten stone came loose. It tumbled through the pale light, spinning end over end between them. Neither man moved while it fell.

The stone struck the floor with a clear, brittle clink.

Moses moved on the sound.

He did not charge at Caelum’s body. He cut the space where Caelum would have wanted to go. The greatsword tore across the chamber in a low, brutal arc, not aiming for flesh but for the route beyond it. Frost burst from the floor. The first three meters of stone split open as if some invisible beast had raked its claws through the ground.

Caelum was already gone from the line.

A dark copy of him remained in the path, daggers crossed, coat rippling in a wind that had not reached it. Moses’s blade went through the clone and met resistance for half a heartbeat. The copy tore apart in black mana and ragged sparks.

Moses’s aura flared.

Purple pressure burst from his armor, thick and hot against the cold air. The remnants of the clone seized before they could scatter, trembling in place like insects pinned through their wings. The mana collapsed a breath later, dragged apart by the force around Moses’s body.

Caelum watched from the edge of the broken floor, untouched, expression cold enough to make the room feel warmer by comparison.

’Interference,’ his mind noted, the thought buried behind an unblinking stare.

Moses turned the sword over his wrist. "That one was something."

Caelum came in low.

The daggers flashed toward the joints Moses’s armor could not fully protect: wrist, inner elbow, the narrow seam beneath the arm. Moses stepped back with more speed than a body that large had any right to possess, his sword dropping across the line between them. Steel met one dagger with a noise that cracked through the chamber. Caelum’s other blade kissed the edge of a gauntlet and slid away, denied the flesh beneath.

A needle shot from Caelum’s sleeve.