A deep, resonant hum filled the cavern—lower and older than the trial's voice, rising from the very bedrock. Cracks of light raced across the walls like veins awakening after a long slumber.
Nysha drew her dagger again. "I thought this chamber was dormant!"
"It was," Lindarion said.
The light expanded.
"But now it recognizes me."
The entire cavern shifted—stone folding, platforms rising, the air trembling with power. Ancient runes ignited in radiant bands across the walls, spiraling toward the ceiling where a single sigil burned brighter than the rest:
THE THIRD GATE — EPOCHS' VERDICT
Ashwing's wings wilted. "No. Nope. Absolutely not. I want my old, simple life back where the worst thing I dealt with was being chased out of kitchens."
Nysha eyes sharpened. "This isn't a trial chamber. This is a—"
"A judgment hall," Lindarion finished.
"How do you know?" she demanded.
He looked up at the sigil.
Because he could read it.
Not the language itself—its meaning.
