The sound of the tap echoed through Arden Gate like a bell rung in the marrow of every bone.
Not loud. Not violent. Just final.
The finger that had risen from the crack did not look like flesh. It was made of something smoother than stone, darker than shadow, older than either. Its surface shimmered with faint patterns that shifted like writing too ancient to read.
It pressed once against the ground, testing. The cobbles of the square hummed and split hairline cracks outward. Dust rose in lines as neat as handwriting.
And then it tapped again—lightly, almost curious.
Lio's thin shadow quivered beneath his boot. The tap rang through it, turning it into a string pulled too tight. He ground his heel into the cobbles, claws scraping. Ink leaked from his wrists, sizzling on stone.
"Not yours," he growled at the finger. His voice was raw, jagged.
