The stone did not argue with a Warenne.
Beneath Gervase's outstretched palm, the chamber's ambient mana flattened without a tremor. Pressure descended in measured tiers, coating the black-veined flagstones and sealing the formations along the ceiling until even the pale drift of the crystal lamps slowed to an obedient amber. It was textbook execution—the unyielding weight of the High March, exerted without a wasted grain of focus.
Three breaths. He held the structure at its absolute perimeter, then parted his fingers. The chamber received the release with the mute indifference of polished granite.
His right hand opened and closed. The pathways through his wrist were cool, clear, and perfectly aligned, precisely as House Warenne had drilled into his bones since childhood.
That should have satisfied him.
Instead, the absolute obedience of the empty room returned him to the Rotunda.
