One pattern looked like fire had spilled sideways and frozen mid-curl. Another was all straight lines bent wrong, fracturing under pressure.
One was barely there, thin, etched like memory instead of fact.
But one, dead center, was glowing faintly.
A dull white pulse, rhythmic.
Like a heartbeat.
Void, again.
He didn't move toward it yet.
Instead, he listened.
The chamber was whispering.
Not in language.
In pattern.
His core reacted again, just like before, but sharper.
Every step he took inside this place dragged more from him. Not mana. Not power.
History.
Luneth stood behind him.
Pale. Still.
Her eyes flicked toward the pulsing glyph.
Then back to the others.
She didn't speak.
But she was shaking.
Just slightly.
Lindarion turned to Lira.
She looked up from her crouch. "Same structure as the first. Outer rings, internal sequence, but this one's more damaged."
"Damaged how?"
