The cathedral, once a bastion of divine silence, had become the epicenter of a frantic, shivering unease. The blacksmith, his hands trembling as he gripped the remnants of his broken hammer, watched the girl press the leather glove against the cold stone of the altar. She was not praying. She was listening.
"The scratching," the girl whispered, her eyes darting toward the dark seams of the floor. "It has stopped moving through the walls. It is vibrating. It’s trying to sync its frequency with the foundation."
"Let it try," the blacksmith growled, though his eyes betrayed his fear. He looked at the fallen Lord Elric, whose chest rose and fell in a shallow, stuttering rhythm. The councilman was alive, but the light in his eyes remained a dull, lifeless grey. "If it tries to claim this cath
