Sylvanna's pulse drummed high in her ears as the last motes of Draven's vision died back into the stone. The hush that followed felt thick enough to bruise—like being sealed in a library after midnight, every book waiting to judge the next page she turned. She tugged her gloves tighter, needing the bite of leather to ground her.
The gate loomed, its pitted surface pocked by centuries of moss and mineral run‑off, yet the engraved names shimmered like fresh ink whenever torch‑light touched them. Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of Elven syllables lay hidden in those weathered grooves, a choir of ghosts speaking languages older than borders. Each rune seemed to lean toward her, daring her to claim it.
