The chamber settles around the sealed well, but the quiet does not last. Far above, at the village gate, Veyr remains on his knees with his wrists bound, his breathing gradually matching Brandon’s measured rhythm.
The iron lattice gives one answering knock from below. Blue light flickers beneath the bars, though the runes remain whole and the grimoire’s pages lie still in Mara’s hands.
Mara
No. The seal is stable. That rhythm is coming through him.
Mara turns sharply toward the stairway, her red cloak brushing the cold stone. Veyr is not in the chamber, yet his distant breath seems to echo faintly through the floor.
Veyr
You hear it now, witch. It has found a better tongue than mine.
Mara
Veyr, be silent. Whatever speaks through you, do not answer it.
Another knock rises beneath the lattice, slower and heavier. Mara closes the grimoire against her chest and watches Brandon, waiting to see whether the borrowed rhythm reaches him.