Amidst the ruins and silence, where breath itself seemed an intrusion, the tower rose. Not tall, but ancient—half-swallowed by earth and moss, bones of its architecture cracked and leaning. The remnants of its shrine gate slanted beneath a crooked beam, upon which a single glyph pulsed like a slow heartbeat.
Li Wei approached it with the caution of a man crossing a river of knives. He knelt, brushing away years of decay with his sleeve until the symbol became clear—etched in fine spirals, a sunburst fracturing into rays of geometric light.
"This must be one of them," he said. "The glyph of Light."
Leng Yue came to his side, the slope of her brow deepening in distrust. "Are you sure?" Her voice was quiet, her hand resting idly against the hilt of her sword. Her eyes never left the glyph.
