No one expected the silence to break that way.
Not with fire.
Not with debate.
Not with an ambush or a speech.
But with the sound of a child crying in the middle of the spiral garden.
His name was Renin.
Five winters old.
Too young for apprentice duties, too old to be carried constantly on his mother's hip.
He'd followed his older sister to the garden during her spiral trial, sneaking past the flame archway before anyone noticed. She had told him to sit quietly, to just watch.
But Renin didn't want to just watch.
He wanted to carry one.
Just like them.
---
No one saw the moment it happened.
One moment, Renin was crouched near the outer curve of the garden's spiral path.
The next — he had a cracked stone in both hands. Too big. Too delicate.
He walked carefully.
Just like they had shown him.
But his steps were clumsy. His grip unsure.
And then—
Snap.
The spiral broke in his palms.
Clean. Sharp. Unforgiving.
The sound echoed more than it should have.
He froze.
