"Funerary verse," Draven confirmed. "A promise that no Seed sleeps alone." His gaze flicked across the glowing runes, tracing meaning in patterns too ancient for human tongues. There was a softness to his expression—gone the razor attention of strategist, replaced by something like wistful recognition. It lasted a heartbeat, then tucked itself behind his habitual calm.
With only three discs left, the hymn grew quieter, as though conserving breath for its final refrain. Sylvanna felt sweat cooling at her temples. The air up here was thin and tasted faintly of crushed mint. If she closed her eyes—only for a moment, she swore—she could imagine the platforms were lily pads on a lake and that stepping wrong would plunge her into nothing colder than water.
Draven never allowed flights of fancy. "Last measures," he warned. "Cadence slows."
