The heavy leather pouch hanging at Sol's waist pulled down with the cold, dense weight of the Mountain-Marrow Stone.
Even muffled beneath layers of cured hide, the steady, rhythmic pulse of the ancient catalyst beat against his hip like a second heart.
Above them, the hollow echoes of the underground vault were gradually overtaken by the rhythmic stomp of heavy boots.
Commander Thauren led two dozen seasoned Veynar warriors down the narrow stone stairs, carrying woven wicker baskets and thick hemp sacks.
"Warchief. High Shaman," Thauren called out, bowing his head slightly as his eyes adjusted to the pale-green glow of the luminescent moss. He glanced at the broken niche in the wall, then at the open chests of cured pelts and dried meat.
