Fed.
The word presses into me like a bruise.
I swallow. “The blight?”
Fed.
Not wound of nature.
Given.
Zeidan stiffens beside me. “By whom?”
The spirit’s shape flickers. One tendril lifts, pointing, not outward, but downward.
Below.
The roots beneath the temple shudder faintly.
Given willingly.
The implication is colder than the air.
The spirit’s light dims slightly, strain evident in the way its form wavers.
You are bound.
The words settle differently this time, acknowledging the bond between us.
Balance disrupted.
Restore.
Then it fractures into motes of pale green light and dissolves back into the stone. Silence rushes in.
Zeidan exhales slowly. “Willingly.”
“Not accidental,” I say.
We circle the altar carefully now, scanning every groove and crack. Near the base, half-hidden beneath collapsed debris, something metallic catches the light.
I brush moss aside. An artifact. Small. Circular. No larger than my palm. It is not ancient. The metal is too refined. The sigilwork too modern.
Three-rooted contraction glyph at its center.
And around the edge, woven so subtly most would miss it, a signature thread I recognize instantly.
My blood goes cold.
Vira.
Not a house mark. Not an official crest. Her personal weave. The same pattern she uses in her council rings. I lift the artifact carefully, my hand steady despite the tremor running through me. Zeidan sees my expression before he sees the object.
“What is it?” he asks.
I turn it so he can see the etched signature.
His face goes very still.
