The plinths were relics, ancient pillars that predated even the founding of Rhymestrand. Each one was etched with runes older than scripture, their lines glowing faintly only when touched by those bearing sanctioned crests. They were believed to channel Aether and keep the city aloft.
David touched the cold base of the eastern plinth.
Nothing.
No glow. No surge. No crackling chorus of power.
Of course not. He wasn't marked.
But still… he lingered.
The wind stirred. And with it, a feeling—subtle, but impossible to ignore. It hummed in his chest, like a memory half-forgotten. A rhythm. A name.
His lips parted—not by choice, but compulsion.
And he spoke.
Not in chant. Not in spell. He didn't reach for glyphs or gestures. He simply said—
"Rise."
The air collapsed around him.
The pillar ignited—not with flame, but with a light that bent the dawn away, swallowing sound, space, and color. Across the city, every plinth answered, roaring to life with a deafening hum. Sigils carved by ancient hands flared into brilliance.
Rhymestrand shuddered.
David staggered back, breath stolen, vision swimming. Somewhere, bells rang. Wardens shouted. The sky cracked open.
And he stood alone, hand trembling, voice hoarse.
"…What… did I do?"
Far above, unseen and unbidden, something awakened—something ancient. In the halls of the High Arcanum, seers wept blood. Deep in the old stones, the name he had spoken echoed, not just in sound—but in law.
The Word has been spoken.
The Lineage stirs.