The Waystone's hum was a constant, physical presence, a vibration that traveled up through the soles of their feet and settled deep in their bones. It was the antithesis of the null-field; where the Compact's technology had been a void, a silencing, this was a fullness, an invitation to join a chorus that had been singing for eons.
They made a sparse camp at its base, their movements quiet and reverent. There was no discussion of watch rotations or defensive perimeters. The stone itself was their guardian. Its frequency was a ward; no predator, natural or mechanical, would approach this nexus of ordered sound. For the first time since their flight began, they slept without fear, cradled by the stone's ancient, unchanging song.
