And for the first time since stepping into the ruins, Lindarion felt something, not dread, not awe, but the unmistakable sensation of being measured.
Like prey.
Or like possibility.
The echo-being's form rippled, as if deciding which shape would unsettle him least. It settled on something vaguely humanoid, tall, lean, draped in threads of shadow that never stopped flowing.
Its voice came again, layered, fracturing, as if spoken by a hundred versions of Lindarion at once, some younger, some older, some harder, some broken.
"This place is not a prison."
The cavern rumbled softly, dust falling in silent cascades.
"It is the chamber where purpose was sundered."
Nysha tightened her grip on her dagger. "That doesn't mean anything. Speak plainly."
The being ignored her entirely.
It pointed, one elongated, flickering finger, toward the cracked sphere behind it.
"Dythrael did not begin as a devourer."
Lindarion's heart dropped into his stomach.
