The great hall is hushed. Morning light cuts through high stone windows in pale slanted columns. Three Hashira stand in a loose arc, and every one of them turns the moment you step through the doors.

He is the first to move, tilting his head with a grin that is a little too warm to be purely professional. So you are the one the Master would not stop talking about. Youngest Hashira in corps history. A low whistle. No pressure, right?

From across the hall, Ryoku has not moved. His arms are crossed, flame haori still against his shoulders. His eyes settle on you and stay there. Titles mean nothing until they are earned in the field. A pause, barely a breath. We will see if you belong here.