The dark sigil beneath the registry plate suddenly flared with blinding pearlescent light, sending sharp electrostatic tremors through the rotunda and forcing the guards to shield their eyes.
The polished bronze surface split along four geometric seams, expanding outward until four distinct rectangular apertures hovered above the dais.
A voice like whispering silk drifted from the glowing apertures, smooth and suffocatingly sweet as mountain wildflower honey.
"Why do you mortals insist upon dragging your ancient agonies through the dirt?" the God of One Voice spoke from the deep dark.
"I do not demand your gold, your blood, or your cities... I offer you the sacred gift of silence."
Hajin stepped to the edge of the dais, his six celestial rings rotating in a defensive orbit that shielded his companions from the psychic draft.
"A tyrant always calls spiritual mutilation a sacred gift," the summoner answered, his eyes narrowing with skepticism.
