The mist did not retreat. It curled around Zaela and Ione as they stood at the ancient archway, pressing against them as though trying to slip beneath their skin. The sigil—etched into the stone like a wound in time—had vanished, swallowed by the shifting veil of silver. But Zaela had seen it change. "I need to go closer," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. Ione tightened her grip on Zaela’s