The arch’s shimmer answers the memory-lights again, but now the Hall of Welcome is close enough to feel it. The ward lines along the stone do not just glow, they lean toward Nhal’s carried memories like thirsty roots that do not bite.
Slaan, Bren, Nhal, and Ven step into the threshold light. The Hall’s runes ripple in a slow, listening pattern, as if comparing the group’s careful preservation with an older lesson buried in the masonry.
Nhal
The wards are reading the memory pattern, not taking from it.
A pale seam of magic threads across the arch, then multiplies into a lattice. Where it meets Nhal’s necklace, the glow steadies, mirrors, and settles into a softer cadence.
Bren
It is learning from them.
The Hall’s defense shifts again, not repelling the group, but opening a measured path inward. For the first time, the old wards feel less like a lock and more like a promise kept.