Three days of silence sit over Far Harbor like dirty snow. Dallas and Murderbone climb the old battlefield hill under a black sky, the grass whipping hard around their legs. Near the stone monument, Professor Dayton waits alone, hat low, hands folded like a man at a lecture.

Dallas takes in the setup at a glance, the path behind Dayton, the blind rise to either side, the monument blocking the wind. The old scholar's posture shifts, shoulders loosening, chin tilting just enough to look wrong.

Murderbone growls low and plants himself at Dallas's side. Under the monument, a thin line of red light leaks from a seam in the stone, faint but steady, like a pulse trying not to be seen.

Dallas sees the connection at once, the customs district signal is still alive, and this meeting is tied to the entity and the remaining coven forces before they can finish destabilizing the city.

Dallas keeps his eyes on Dayton, but Murderbone answers first, a sharp tension in his stance that Dallas can feel through the leash of habit more than a leash in hand. Dallas draws his revolver and brings it up ready, the motion smooth, the hill suddenly smaller around him.

Murderbone shifts one paw back, not retreating, just warning. His head angles past Dayton, toward the monument and the cracked stone at its base.

Dayton does not look at the dog. He looks at Dallas’s gun instead, and smiles like he expected it. The red seam in the monument brightens by a thin notch.

Wind hisses through the grass, then stops for a beat, as if the hill itself is holding its breath. Dayton opens one hand toward the monument, inviting Dallas to notice what he has already set in motion.

Dallas keeps the gun steady, but his eyes shift to Murderbone. The dog is not looking at Dayton anymore, he is braced toward the monument’s base, every muscle tight.

The answer is not a bark. It is the way Murderbone holds still, warning Dallas without breaking cover. The crack in the stone throws back a dim red line.

Dallas spots it at once, fresh dust around the monument’s seam, disturbed earth tucked behind the base. Dayton’s smile does not move, but his hand stays open, waiting.

The red seam brightens again, and the stone gives off a faint, buried click from inside.

Dallas moves first, circling wide around the monument with his revolver up and Murderbone holding the center. Gravel shifts under his shoes, and the red seam disappears and reappears as the stone changes angle.

He reaches the backside of the base, where fresh dust clings to a hairline gap in the masonry. The seam is cut clean, newer than the weathered blocks around it.

Dallas lowers his gaze and spots a narrow service notch hidden under the lip of the monument. Tool marks bite into the stone, and the buried click comes again, dull but deliberate.

Murderbone wheels toward Dayton with a low growl, but Dallas does not look up. He sees the proof at the base, a concealed panel edge under the dust, waiting to be opened.

Behind them, the red seam brightens hard enough to stain the stone. Dayton’s calm hold breaks for the first time, just a flicker, as if he is waiting for Dallas to choose the panel or the man.

Dallas keeps the revolver steady. Dayton’s chin lifts, but his hands stay visible, spread in the dying red light like a man confident the floor will answer for him.

The monument answers with a muted click from below stone, as if Dayton’s words have reached something waiting under Dallas’s boots.