The gold chain-script on the wall throbs once, twice, in time with Kynes's pulse. Then the margin mark blooms wider, and the light stops pretending to be a record.

The chain bends into a tether, bright as molten wire. It runs from the wall, through the room, and into Kynes himself, without touching skin.

Golden ink leaks from the stone in thin rivers, sketching a map of his spirit. The lines settle into coordinates, exact and cold, as if the vault has been tracking him all along.

The pulse deepens. Every beat of the script answers House Xar, not the Hall of Welcome, and the tether holds steady across any distance.

The gold map finishes drawing. Somewhere beyond the stone, the legacy has found its mark, and the archive waits for Kynes to answer it.