The three of them slip deeper beneath the watchtower’s broken arch, out of the knife-cold wind. Rain beads on black stone and the lantern throws a small, gold shelter around their boots.

Kynes turns fully toward Halven, staff planted beside him like a second spine. The ruined wall holds the storm at bay, and for once the silence feels chosen.

Bren shifts near the wall, calm and watchful, her presence steadying the little circle of light.

The wind moans through the cracked tower above them. Halven’s shoulders ease a fraction, as if speaking the shame aloud takes less strength than carrying it.

Halven goes still under the arch. The rain ticks on stone above them, and the little lantern flame steadies instead of guttering, as if the shelter itself waits for the answer.

Bren’s gaze softens, but she keeps her hand near her blade. Halven’s shoulders drop at last, the weight of the confession finally landing in the wet dark.

Kynes studies the man, his arcane senses probing for the telltale chill of the undead, but finds only the frantic, erratic pulse of a living heart. The air around Halven remains warm and damp, devoid of the unnatural stillness that defines the void-kin.

The words land hard in the shelter. Halven stops moving, the lantern light catching on their wet hood as if the room itself is waiting for an answer.

Halven swallows, then reaches into their cloak and draws out a narrow strip of gold-stitched vellum, damp but intact. A witness mark is pressed into one corner, half-rubbed away by time.

Kynes lets the shadows climb his forearm. They thicken, dark as floodwater, then split into a jagged tendril lined with small, cruel teeth.

Halven goes still. Their eyes drop to the shadowed limb, then back to Kynes’s face, the record strip trembling in their hand.

Bren’s gaze narrows, but she does not interrupt. The lantern throws the vellum bright, and the pressed mark at its corner catches gold.

Halven holds the vellum out with both hands, waiting for Kynes to decide whether to accept the strip or keep the shadow waiting at their throat.

Kynes lifts the vellum strip without touching it. The shadow on his forearm flexes once, then steadies, and the record hangs in the air before his eyes.

The strip turns a little in the unseen current, opening itself to him. Fresh script glints along the fold, as if the seal expects a witness to read it aloud.

Kynes studies the floating strip. The gold stitching separates into a narrow clause, then a second, older mark beneath it, pressed so deep it almost vanishes in the lantern light.

The hidden record yields at once, and one line clears enough to read. It names the witness who first carried the burden, and the air in the shelter tightens around that name.

The vellum trembles, then steadies. The hidden line burns brighter, as if it has been waiting for the question more than the answer.

The lantern flame bows low. Beneath the gold stitching, a second witness mark wakes, sharp and old, as though the name has found its proper place.

The vellum loosens in the air, revealing a narrow marginal note in faded gold, a date, and a mark that matches House Domini script. Halven swallows hard, waiting for Kynes to decide what to ask next.

Kynes snaps the shadow-mouth on his arm forward in a biting chop near Halven’s face. The dark, toothy shape stops short, but the threat is plain.

The faded margin line catches the lantern light. A date and a House Domini mark sharpen together, and the vellum gives up one more sliver of writing.

Halven goes rigid, staring at the strip as if it has turned to a blade. The revealed line trembles in the air between them, waiting for Kynes’s next command.