Ilyr Domini’s name hangs in the amber light, and Halven goes pale. The vellum trembles in his hands, as if the page itself regrets speaking.

The Hooded Stranger shifts in the shadow at the edge of the shelter, one hand sliding toward the hidden key at their belt. Their posture tightens, waiting for the moment to steal away with it.

Ilyr’s spirit flares colder, and the vellum’s gold lines sharpen into a clear witness mark. The shelter seems to narrow around the choice, expose the architect, or let the key vanish with the truth still half-buried.

Kynes lifts two fingers, and the air around Halven cinches tight. The man freezes mid-breath, pinned in place as if an unseen hand clamps his ribs and shoulders. The vellum steadies in the amber light.

Bren’s hand comes up at once, calm and practiced, and she offers the sword hilt-first without taking her eyes off the shelter’s shadowed corner.

The Hooded Stranger jerks their hand away from the belt at the same instant, too late to seem casual now. The hidden key flashes once in the lantern glow before their sleeve covers it again.

Halven swallows hard against the telekinetic hold, helpless and shaking, while the witness mark on the vellum brightens into a sharp, accusing line. The Stranger squares up in the shadows, key still at their belt, waiting to see whether Kynes turns the sword or the spirit next.

Kynes lays the blade across Bren’s open palm and threads the necrotic blessing through it. The steel drinks the dark aura and answers with a low, grave hum, as if the weapon recognizes a funeral rite rather than a curse.

The witness mark on the vellum softens from accusation into a steady glow. Along Bren’s blade, the blessing settles as a thin black-gold sheen, precise and controlled, leaving no stain on her grip.

Halven remains locked in place, watching with pale dread as the spirit’s edge quiets. The hidden key at their belt does not move, and the shelter falls into a tense, listening hush.

Kynes takes the sword from Bren with careful hands, then turns the hilt toward Ilyr’s waiting face. The shelter seems to hold its breath as he begins a brief prayer for the dead.

His fingers touch the hilt to Ilyr’s forehead. The spirit brightens once, clean and white at the edges, then loosens like mist unknotted from a stone.

A thin current of pale light leaves Ilyr’s chest and rises into the dark above the ruined tower. The witness mark on the vellum steadies into a calm, gold glow, no longer accusatory.

Where Ilyr had stood, a faint afterimage lingers for a heartbeat, then fades. In the polished steel, a second reflection flickers, showing a sealed door and a sunlit name half-buried beneath dust.

Kynes draws the vellum closer and tightens his invisible grip on the hooded stranger. Halven jerks once, then freezes harder under the pressure.

The oldest mark wakes beneath the gold, not bright, but layered, a deeper line pressed under older ink. A sealed door resolves in the script, then a name half-scraped away.

The hidden trace clarifies into House Xar handwriting, with a witness notch beside it. The record names the hand that ordered the burial, then lets the lower line surface for anyone stubborn enough to keep reading.

Halven swallows against the unseen hold, eyes wide with fear. Bren shifts her blade a fraction, watching him as if waiting for him to try something foolish.

The vellum settles in Kynes’s hand, the oldest mark now plain enough to act on. Halven’s belt still bears the hidden key, and he cannot reach it.