May reaches the old mountain shrine beneath three weathered standing stones. A lean elderly man waits beside a bell green with age, his dark wool robes silvered by frost, one clouded eye fixed on the approaching road.
Edran
You came with the mark, but not with a name. That is the proper beginning. I am Edran, keeper of this shrine.
He extends both hands without asking who sent May. Far below, the tyrant's escort remains beside the sealed village well, while the Village Market Crowd guards the ropes and boards.
The silver rune leaves May's palm and settles in Edran's hands. He places it on the shrine threshold, traces a circle of ash around it, and begins the anonymous reading.
Edran
The mark remembers a binding broken under pressure. Its warning concerns water, thresholds, and something beneath the mountain. The final line says—
The ancient bell rings before he can finish. Its deep note rolls down the mountain toward the village, and frost gathers around the threshold in unfamiliar symbols that slowly turn toward May.
Edran
Do not step across those symbols. The shrine has recognized a bearer, though I have not learned your name. Now we must see what it asks of you.