Bren kneels by the turned earth, one hand hovering over a broken stone marker. The hill house crest on it matches the mark from her map. Fresh soil rings the cairn, as if someone has been here minutes ago.

Kynes studies the disturbance. The soil is cut in a neat line, not a grave, a search. At the edge of the pit lies a sliver of dark wax stamped with a narrow sigil, half-hidden in grit.

Bren rises slowly, brushing dirt from her palm. Her grim look hardens into focus as she follows Kynes's gaze to the wax seal. The quarry road, the cairn, the crest, all point to one hand guiding the locks from behind the hill house.

The wind shifts over the cairn, carrying the smell of wet stone. Kynes's staff gives a faint answering hum near the seal. Bren waits beside him, no longer merely a guide, but a witness to the same trail.

Kynes lays two fingers on the wax and lets the memory take him. Cold stone, soot, and rain-wet wool rush past his senses, then the sharp bite of a ring pressed into the seal.

A hooded hand breaks the wax in a torchlit chamber. The same narrow sigil flashes once, not a house mark but a command, passed from a gloved messenger to a taller figure waiting in shadow.

The taller figure does not speak, only turns the seal toward a map spread on a table. Quarry lines, road cuts, and cairn marks crowd the parchment. Kynes feels the certainty of a route chosen, not guessed.

A second pulse follows, newer and cleaner. The wax has been handled by House Xar, but only as a courier's skin carries a letter. The true maker of the lockwork is an older hand, hidden above the hill house and directing it.

The vision fades. The seal in Kynes's hand is suddenly just wax again, but now it sits on the trail of a command chain, not a mystery. Beyond the cairn, the quarry road lies open between the stones.