A month has passed since the shrine was cleared, and the Hall of Welcome feels calmer, almost still. Nhal glides in first, purple light flickering with excitement, a small vial cradled in their hands.
They stop before Slaan and tilt the vial into the light. Inside, the memory swirls in a tight pulse, matching the shape of distant hills and old roads.
Nhal
Slaan, look. This one is different. It keeps pulling toward a place, not a person.
Slaan
The rhythm is geographic, like a path trying to remember itself.
Nhal’s glow brightens as they turn the vial in careful fingers, holding it out like an offering and a puzzle at once.
Nhal
I think it wants us to follow it. Or it wants to be followed.
The Hall’s shadows lie quiet around them, but the vial keeps beating with that steady, secret pulse.