Riven stood where the stone met the mist.
Just beyond the kingdom's southern wards, at the place where the high road met the cliffs, the land fell silent again—just as it had the day the priest first appeared. The same low wind drifted across the path. The same quiet tension lingered in the air like something unspoken.
And the obsidian disc still rested there.
He hadn't touched it that day. Hadn't moved it. But the rain hadn't worn it down, and time hadn't claimed it. It looked exactly as it had before—smooth, dark, etched with the six elemental sigils, untouched by weather or decay.
It was waiting.
Riven stepped across the threshold and knelt.
He didn't speak. Just pressed his palm to the disc.
The disc pulsed once beneath Riven's palm—calm, steady, alive.
