The corridor descended, lit by unlit torches—only absorbing the light. The air was cold, heavy, with a metallic smell—not of blood, but of spirits. We entered a circular chamber: the sigil holes in the floor spun slowly; in the center, Zereth lay on an obsidian altar, his body intact but his tattered shadow scattered across the floor like torn rags.
Selena lowered her head, then stepped aside—leaving my path clear.
I approached. "Zereth."
His eyelids trembled, unopened. His lips were cracked—not from heat, but from silence. From his chest, three cracks of pale light crept—like foreign letters forced into an ancient carving.
Noa whispered, "Lunar sign. Weak—but it penetrates right to the knot of the name. If left unchecked, the soul anchor will lose its 'first word.'"
I reached for the altar, suppressing a shiver. "Selena, close the door. Algor, Simon—begin."
