The ledger throbbed on the rock like a heart that belonged to someone else.
Sal had shut it. Lena had set a stone on top. Tor had wrapped it in oilcloth and bound it twice. None of it mattered. Silver kept spidering out from the seams, thin as hair, bright as frost. Every time the glow touched air, the Spire’s hum grew a shade louder, as if distance were a rumor and the book was determined to prove it wrong.
“Back,” Ysra ordered, her voice the scratch of flint. “No hands near it unless asked.”
They made a ring wide enough to let fear breathe. The quarry walls pressed close, listening. Lark edged Fena behind his shoulder without looking like he meant to. Kest stared at the bundle as if the cords were old scars he knew by their knots.
“It’s still writing,” Sal said hoarsely. “Even closed
