Azra held out the ruined mask. "He didn't blink," she said, as if those words alone explained the chill burning inside her bones. "I drove for his eyes. He watched the strike like he'd already memorized its weight. Felt… unnecessary to move."
Orvath's chuckle rasped up from deep in his chest. "He will blink when the altar sings. They all will." He turned to the iron slab in the room's center—a map etched with rune-ink that still glistened wetly. Ribs representing the leviathan curled across parchment, each notch marked by a shard-symbol. A scattering of crystal tokens glimmered at key joints. The layout resembled a monstrous spine, and at its heart a burning core-glyph pulsed amber-red, matching the valley beats above.
"Petrichor proceeds," he said, savouring the consonants like spice on his tongue. "Every memory we harvested, every fear wrung from the dead—ready for infusion. We feed the shards into the cocoon tonight. By dawn the altar will have legs."
