The torches in the Council's sanctum guttered all at once. A sudden shiver of air swept through the sealed chamber, making the flames bow and twist as though a vast unseen hand had pressed against the stone.
The robed figures froze mid-ritual. Chalk dust drifted from a halted sigil, a quill snapped in its wielder's hand, blood dripping unnoticed from the cut. The silence that followed was jagged, too sharp to be natural, like the breath held by a world on the brink of speaking.
At the chamber's center, the obsidian pillar shivered. Its surface rippled with light as if veins had awoken beneath its black skin. Glyphs bloomed slowly across it, curling lines that none of the elders had carved, glowing with the pale, unnatural fire of ancient wards.
The high ritualist staggered, his voice breaking with both awe and dread.
"One of the vaults… it has stirred."
