The ridge drops away, and the toll cairn comes into view, ancient stones hunched against the wind. Below it, armored Church figures pry at the base with hooks and chisels, blocking the only clean path to the lowlands.
The ground tremors again. Dust skitters through the cairn gaps, and Slaan feels the old stone answer with a faint, wrong pulse. Dravin goes still, reading the excavation like a verdict.
Dravin
They are not searching. They are opening it.
Lord Markul
If they unseal that base, the route below may be lost, or worse.
A Church foreman turns at the noise above, then points sharply toward the ridge. Several armored heads lift at once. The excavation line starts to tighten, readying spears and shields.
Bram
Slaan, say the word. We can still force a way through.
Dravin’s hand hovers near the records, caught between warning and necessity. The cairn, the Church, and the waking node all press toward the same moment, and the path to the lowlands now runs straight through them.