Silence lingered long after the wounded man’s whisper.

  “Seal it… before it finds a way out.”

  The words remained suspended in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. They did not echo, nor did they fade—

  they sank.

  The hall swallowed them, as though the stone itself had accepted their weight.

  Cylian was the first to move. She knelt beside the wounded man, her hand hovering above his injury without touching it, her eyes fixed on the place where the light had gathered.

  “This wound…” she said quietly, “it shouldn’t look like this.”

  Ikida stepped closer, crouching beside her, still refusing to touch the man. He observed instead—measuring his breathing, the color of his skin, the clarity of his awareness.

  “No blood… no heat… no shock.”

  Amazal noticed it too.

  The wounded man had not moved since the light withdrew. Something within him resisted motion, as if the ground beneath him was no longer stone, but memory.

  Suddenly, the man tried to rise—his body still weak, yet his movements violent. Ikida reacted instantly, blade at his throat, eyes locked tight.

  “You should still be lying down. How did this happen? Who are you—and what are you?”

  Amazal turned toward him, his voice calm.

  “What are you doing, Ikida?”

  Ikida did not look away.

  “We need answers. Does any of this seem normal to you? A mortal wound healing in the blink of an eye—on an island like this? We must be careful.”

  Cylian remained beside the injured man, her gaze fixed on his body as it continued to recover at an unnatural pace.

  Disbelief crept into her voice.

  “How can a fatal wound heal like this… in moments? That’s impossible.”

  The wounded man froze. His eyes clung to the glowing symbol, as though he knew its place—yet feared it.

  Vailor stood in the middle, torn between the man and the symbols, between curiosity and dread. Everything here carried meaning. Everything here was watching them.

  He remained where he was, stunned, his eyes swaying—one on the healed man, the other on the illuminated wall—as if his mind could not grasp two impossibilities at once.

  “This… healing?” he murmured, more to himself than to them. “This is not mercy.”

  Those words drew Ikida’s attention.

  “Explain.”

  Vailor shook his head slowly.

  “Mercy is random. This… is precise. Calculated.”

  His voice barely escaped his lips.

  “I can’t believe it… I’ve read about the Tree of Odyr—the Tree of Life. But to see it now, healing a fatal wound in moments… this is no legend...it is a miracle without warmth .”

  Amazal felt a powerful pull toward the markings. Every step drew him closer, every thread of light brushing against his heart.

  The hall itself began to respond.

  The light along the wall did not blaze everywhere—it narrowed, focused, converging into a single path toward the symbol Amazal had been staring at since they entered.

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  Vailor noticed the change first.

  “…Do you see that?”

  Ikida turned. Cylian followed, her eyes widening.

  The glow grew clearer—not brighter, but more ordered. Tangled lines aligned, like stone veins tightening beneath the surface.

  Then it appeared.

  A single word.

  It was not carved.

  It was not written.

  It formed in the air, suspended above the stone—woven of light and shadow, flickering like a thought struggling to become sound.

  With every step Amazal took closer, the word flared sharper, stronger.

  Cylian gasped.

  “What is that?”

  Amazal did not answer. He stared at the place where the word hovered, his heart pounding—not with fear, nor awe, but with a strange sense of knowing without memory.

  Vailor approached cautiously, trying to understand—and suddenly, the word vanished.

  Cylian gestured sharply.

  “Step back… maybe it fades when you’re too close.”

  With every step Failor retreated, the word reappeared—its light intensifying as Amazal drew nearer.

  “This… this can’t be real,” Failor said, his voice trembling between wonder and fear.

  “The word—the light—everything… it’s acting as if it’s alive. As if it’s bound to Amazal alone.”

  He stepped back once more, watching how it vanished when he approached—and returned when he withdrew.

  “It’s reacting to him… to Amazal only,” he whispered, as though afraid to believe his own eyes.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s not just light—it’s alive. Something that knows him… and hides from me.”

  Driven by instinct, Amazal raised his hand, reaching for the glow.

  The moment his fingers neared it, the light shattered—bursting into a delicate, translucent wave, like liquid radiance. It rippled through the air and surged straight into his chest.

  It did not merely touch him.

  It vanished into him.

  The hall fell dark once more, as if it had swallowed the light whole.

  Amazal felt the word’s essence sink into his depths, leaving behind a strange sense of connection—as though the hall itself had acknowledged him, and him alone.

  Cylian inhaled sharply. She stepped forward hesitantly, her eyes never leaving Amazal as he stood motionless—his body faintly glowing where the light had merged with him.

  She whispered, her voice trembling,

  “Amazal… are you… all right?”

  Her words carried both fear and concern—as if she feared he might not be the same anymore.

  Ikida remained standing over the wounded man, now fully healed, his sword still poised at his throat. Yet even he could not ignore what had happened. He stared at Amazal’s body—the light absorbed into him—and his voice quivered.

  “Amazal… what just happened to you?”

  Amazal did not answer immediately. He stared at the place where the light had vanished, his heart beating in a way he had never known—caught between fear, awe, and a deep, unsettling curiosity.

  One truth was undeniable:

  his body had absorbed something unseen.

  A force. A message. A secret.

  Something born of the hall itself.

  He took a deep breath. Faint traces of light still shimmered in his eyes as he looked first to Cylian, then to Ikida.

  His voice was low—but firm.

  “I felt it… I felt what these maps were trying to hide. It wasn’t just light. It was something… something concealed within.”

  After a moment, he added,

  “I don’t know how—or why—but I can feel it now… inside me.”

  His voice trembled, yet carried certainty. Every word struck like a blow.

  “Now I understand. These symbols aren’t just drawings. They’re a living map—a guide. And that thread of light… was the key.”

  He swallowed.

  “And I… I am the one meant to turn the lock.”

  He stepped away from the wall, his gaze shifting toward the glowing point, as though it were watching him—testing him.

  “There is something there… at that point. Something hidden for centuries. We have to go there—to uncover what these maps concealed… and to see what we are truly capable of facing.”

  The wounded man—his body restored with terrifying speed—could not hold himself back. A short laugh escaped him, thick with terror, as though years of fear had condensed into a single sound.

  “That was obvious from the beginning…” he muttered, his voice low but edged with warning, his eyes locked on the glowing point.

  “It’s a map—yes. But not an ordinary one. It’s impossible. And what lies at that luminous place… should never be approached.”

  He shifted slightly, his words trembling like echoes from a forgotten age.

  “Even we—the people of Tizra—were never allowed to go there. That point… holds something immeasurable. Unbearable. Staying away is wiser than approaching it.”

  He lifted his gaze slowly.

  “Do not seek what lies within. It is forbidden to us.”

  Amazal stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with equal parts fear and fascination.

  “Why?” he asked softly. “What is there?”

  The man looked at him, his eyes nearly hollow, his voice dropping into reverent dread.

  “There…”

  A pause.

  “…is where Laghmadh lives.”