Lindarion didn't speak.
Sylric did.
"They're not building something."
That cut through the quiet.
Lindarion looked over.
Sylric leaned back against the stone pillar, arms draped loosely across his knees.
"They're carving," he said. "Deliberately. Not with mana alone. With tools. Blood. Burnt stone. Old glyphs."
Lindarion frowned. "Where?"
"Eastern mountain range. Cliffs near the collapsed silver mines."
"How do you know?"
"People I used to know went quiet," Sylric said. "Then some fool sent a sketch to a black-market archivist. Got intercepted by someone I don't owe money to."
He reached into his coat, pulled a folded piece of parchment, and handed it over.
Lindarion opened it.
The drawing was rough, but the scale was clear, mountainside. Dozens of feet tall. Angular carvings running in a circle with branching spokes. Older than common Elvish. Deeper than elemental theory.
It wasn't a building.
It was a rune.
One word.
Not for summoning.
For anchoring.
