The cathedral vault was silent when Sylen stepped through the stone threshold. The air was thick with the scent of travel, smoke, and old magic, the kind that lingered, the kind that refused to fade.
He tossed his cloak aside, ignoring the subtle protests from the ever- watchful gargoyle wards perched above. Dusken, curled beside Niah, flicked an ear but didn't stir.
Zaire was already waiting with his arms folded. His eyes were sharp and storm-grey, carrying the kind of energy that meant he'd been thinking too long.
"You took longer than expected," Zaire said.
Sylen exhaled, voice dry. "There was more to find than expected."
Behind Zaire stood Dr Thorne, scholar of myth, wrapped in her usual midnight-blue robes. Beside her, Father Delran emerged from the shadows, prayer beads clinking softly between his fingers.
Niah sat at the edge of the table, quiet but alert, her gaze flicking to Sylen, searching for something she couldn't quite name.
Sylen opened the metal case and slid it across the stone table, the shard inside pulsed red.
"I found this in the southern ruin. This is the third one in less than ten days," Sylen said. "And it wasn't just lying there; it was humming lightly and looked alive, like it wanted to be found."
Dr Thorne leaned in, her eyes narrowing behind the golden spectacles.
"This doesn't look natural. It's been… rewritten. Look at the curvature in the glyphs, someone is tampering with the old Veil design."
"Its not just someone," Sylen muttered. "Crenna confirmed traces of pre-Veil incantations, a language lost even before the Aetherbound."
The air shifted, heavy with meaning. Though Zaire remained still, the air around him seemed to contract.
"This means someone's not just damaging the Veil," Zaire said. "They're trying to reshape it."
Silence settled over the room, thick and unmoving. Niah glanced at the shard, then back at Sylen. "And what happens if they succeed?" she asked.
Sylen looked at her fully for the first time. Whatever humour usually lived in him had vanished. He looked like a creature carved from dusk and dusk alone.
"If they succeed," he said, "you won't be waking up as Esme." His voice lowered, weighted with something raw.
"You'll be remembering her death." The words dropped like a stone.
Father Delran's jaw tensed. "Then it's time we gathered our allies."
Sylen nodded. "Already ahead of you."
He turned to Zaire, slow, calculating, with that small, sly grin, only half-teasing, but entirely knowing.
"How's your flat? I hope it accommodates more than Dusken and a pot of tea?"
Zaire raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting a war briefing?"
Sylen leaned against the table, far too casually. "No. I want a proper dinner."
Zaire stared at him blankly.
Sylen winked. "We need to tie every thread before it all unravels."
Though the warmth in the stone dimmed, something lingered, as if the vault itself had heard its name whispered.
* * *