The next chamber wasn't locked.
Just runed..
Subtle, minimal. A displacement veil layered in old elven notation, sloppy, but enough to trick eyes at a glance. It didn't stop him. His presence slid through it without resistance, absorbed by the folds of darkness riding his skin.
He pressed a palm lightly to the wood.
Listened.
Voices.
Low. Not Caldrisian.
He moved through.
The room beyond was no longer part of the estate's formal structure. This was retrofitted, a long stone gallery beneath the southern tower, repurposed into a workspace.
Crates, mana stabilizers, glowing chains half-wrapped in cloth. Arcane devices too refined for local nobility.
At the far end, two figures.
One was a guard, nervous, underdressed, not magical.
The other—
Lindarion stopped moving.
Not Caldrisian. Not even local.
