Kylan follows, eyes narrowed. “Smells of lightning.”
“Dragon breath crystallized into air veins.” I brush a column; sparks arc along my fingertips. The lattice hums, eager.
But I seek the record room. I count runes until I reach the second ring, then press boot against a tile etched with overlapping sigils of claw and quill. The marble sinks, grinding downward. A spiral staircase unravels from the floor, each step glowing azure.
Kylan bares teeth. “You go down there, I cannot follow full-shift.”
“I need you human for nuance.” I descend first. Stones warm under soles, like skin welcoming footfalls. The staircase empties into vault lit by suspended glass orbs—each orb harboring miniature storm clouds, flickering blue-white flashes illuminating shelves of stone tablets.
I exhale awe. “So many survived.” Suns of my childhood flicker behind eyes—teachers whispering about lost archives, elders claiming all first binding texts were shattered. Yet here they wait, ancient and awake.
Kylan prowls perimeter, sniffing. Satisfied no living threat lurks, he stands guard near entrance, arms folded. His presence steadies cavern’s pulse. I slip star-gloves over fingertips to prevent the lattice from sparking uncontrolled and lift the first tablet.
Its surface bears swirling script carved by claw-tip—grammar of prophecy and blood tinted blue by powdered sapphire. I read aloud softly, translating line by line into Kylan’s tongue while making charcoal copies with my free hand.
“When the veils falter and breath seeks breath,
Seer and Fang shall bleed where realms cleft.
Stone hearts for gate posts, soul-wood for lintel,
Only death willing may dam the rift central.”
I blink back sting of recognition. Seer and Fang—oracle and alpha. They bled together here. I picture ghost-images: a woman wreathed in starlight, a wolf-skin man gripping her hand over glacial altar. Their life joining the seal.
“Binding equaled sacrifice,” I murmur.
Kylan grunts assent but his eyes darken. “If they died to close wound, why does wound open again?”
“Sacrifices buy time, not permanence.” A tremor of dread flows through me; I swallow. “Each age requires its own price.”
He rubs scarred knuckles, jaw rigid. “Price will fall on you.”
“And you.” The thought pains me. I return tablet, lift another lighter slab—this one a fresco panel painted with shimmering mineral pigments. It depicts silhouettes under a triple-mooned sky raising a sphere of prismatic fire toward a dragon-like shadow. The artistry is breathtaking—wings etched in flaming arcs, figures rendered with elongated limbs. At lower corner tiny symbols catch eye: intertwined coils—one copper, one silver—surrounded by shock-burst motif.
Recognition slams my heart. “That is Remi and Zale’s coil device,” I whisper, tracing burst shape. “This panel is new—must have appeared after their Umbramere blast.”
Kylan steps close, brow furrowed. “Shrine records events as they echo across ley lines?”
“Apparently. Which means the sanctum’s memory remains active.” Hope battles horror; the shrine will absorb Convergence’s results—glorious or apocalyptic—and store them for whoever lives after.
I catalog panel details quickly: coil colors, blast radius swirling into fractal lines that mimic rift tears, two tiny figures—perhaps representing wounded guardians—kneeling amid fallout. I transcribe; chalk scratches echo my heartbeat.
Tablet number three weighs heavier—literally denser with star-metal. On its face are two columns of names, each followed by glyph signifying race and house. I read silently: Vaerra Greyspell, first Oracle; Durik Grimvale, first Alpha. My lungs hitch. “Our ancestors,” slips out.
Kylan’s knuckles brush the stone reverently. “How many names?”
“Twenty-one.” I skim. Seventeen oracles, four alphas—wolves being fewer but gifting raw vitality. Aside each name, a final rune—the sigil for perished. All twenty-one glow dull vermilion, irreversible sacrifice seals.
I copy names for council records. My hands shake; the lattice pulses faster. I push forward, unstacking tablets one by one, summarizing incantation patterns, diagrams of dragon bone pillars, formulas for timing—each detail crucial for counter-Convergence ritual. Hours pass unnoticed; at some point Kylan forces water into my grip, and I drink without pausing commentary.
Halfway through fifteenth slab, runes blur. The cave tilts. Kylan notices instantly, taking weight of tablet before it smashes toes.
“Enough.” He slots slab safe, grips my shoulders. Concern flares golden in his eyes. “Lattice bright as sunrise.”
“No time.” I steady breath. “One more tablet.”
He bares teeth but relents, holds me steady while I lift final stone—thin, almost flimsy. The writing upon it glows violet, shifting language to match reader’s comprehension automatically. I scan first lines and freeze.
