The summons came at dawn.
A knock.
Three slow taps.
No words.
Kael opened the door to find a folded scrap of parchment pinned to the frame with a sliver of iron.
The message was simple:
Come to the Lower Sanctum. No witnesses. No words. No refusal.
Signed only with the Hollow's sigil.
He dressed carefully.
No weapons.
Only the pouch tucked under his belt.
The bottle within remained silent.
Warm, but not pulsing.
Not yet.
The Lower Sanctum sat beneath the inner cliffs, deeper even than the herb gardens and quiet shrines.
Few disciples ever walked there without escort.
Fewer returned the same.
Kael descended the spiral steps alone.
Each turn of the stair pulled the air thinner, colder.
When he reached the bottom, the doors opened without a sound.
Inside waited three figures.
Two he recognized:
Councilor Marren, with his brittle fingers.
Varra, robes immaculate, expression unreadable.
The third was new.
A woman in crimson robes, marked with silver thread along the hems.
Her eyes were pale.
Not white.
Silver.
"Step forward," Marren rasped.
Kael did.
The woman in crimson studied him.
"Name."
"Kael."
"No House?"
"No."
"Object carried?"
Kael paused.
Then:
"Personal relic."
"Submit."
A hand gesture—flat, sharp.
A command.
Kael moved slowly.
Pulled the pouch free.
Held it tight.
The woman didn't reach for it.
Instead, she raised a shallow silver bowl filled with clear, viscous liquid.
"Place your hand above it."
Kael hesitated.
The bottle warmed.
Pulsed.
Once.
He placed his hand over the bowl.
The air thickened.
No words were spoken.
No spell visibly cast.
But something pulled.
Not his hand.
Not his body.
His thoughts.
His memories.
Thin threads of color and scent and emotion unwound from him, too fine to see, but felt.
Kael gritted his teeth.
The bottle pulsed harder, sharper.
Suddenly—
Nothing.
A wall slammed down inside him.
Not his doing.
The pull recoiled, like a hand grasping into fire.
The woman's silver eyes narrowed.
Marren shifted.
Varra smiled faintly.
Kael said nothing.
The woman lowered the bowl.
"The relic interferes," she said flatly.
Marren's voice was dry and amused.
"As expected."
He stepped closer.
"Proceed to binding."
The woman produced a thin strand of black twine, no thicker than a hair.
She tied it once around Kael's left wrist.
The twine tightened of its own accord.
Not painful.
Not visible under the sleeve.
But present.
Kael felt the cold burn into his skin.
"A mark," Marren said.
"To track deviation. Should you… forget yourself."
Kael didn't react.
He bowed.
Turned.
And left.
Only once he climbed halfway back to the upper halls did he let his hand brush the inside of his sleeve.
The twine was gone.
No texture.
No weight.
But the cold lingered.
Like an invisible hook had been set under the surface of his skin.
He returned to his quarters.
Sat on the edge of the mat.
Unwrapped the pouch.
The bottle gleamed faintly in the low light.
Still green.
Still gold-threaded.
Still breathing.
If breathing was the right word.
Kael whispered:
"You protected me."
The bottle didn't respond.
It didn't need to.
He could feel it now—truly feel it.
Not just warmth or pulsing.
Intention.
Focus.
Awareness.
Someone knocked.
Kael wrapped the pouch hastily.
Sariel entered without waiting.
She closed the door behind her, arms folded.
"They marked you."
He nodded.
"They'll watch you now."
"I know."
She hesitated.
Then, more quietly:
"They're afraid of you."
Kael almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, he said:
"They should be."
Sariel smiled.
Not with joy.
With understanding.
"You'll need help."
"I don't trust anyone."
"Then trust in that."
She placed something on the floor between them—a thin blade, notched but sharp.
Not a gift.
A statement.
Then she left.
Kael sat alone.
Listening to the Hollow breathe.
Feeling the bottle breathe back.
Knowing the threads woven around him had already begun to tighten.
And somewhere deeper, beneath stone and memory and ash—
Something old smiled.
And waited.