I close my eyes and let my hum soften, turning it into more breath than sound. Instead of probing the room, I just… listen.
The ghost frequency brushes against my awareness again. It’s thinner this time, wary. It curls around the edges of my perception, tasting for hooks.
I don’t give it any.
I just listen and let my body register the texture of it—the way it warps the space around it, the tiny flares of corruption. There’s something woven in—another rhythm underneath the Aelorian. A pattern like a march.
Obrath, maybe. Control. Or something close to it.
Someone layered order into hymn. Someone weaponized reverence.
When I open my eyes, my skin feels too tight. “Okay,” I say. “I have enough. We can map this against the device signature.”
Eryndor nods once. “Good. Then we leave.”
He
