She dreamed in stone again.

Not of places—but of weight. Of breath braided into walls. Of vaults that remembered her before she existed. The ache hadn’t left when she woke; it had nested behind the ribs, quiet but pulsing, like something old claiming a new name. The silence was not just around her—it was inside her now.

The chamber pressed against her skin in ways the air shouldn’t. Outside, dawn clawed at the stained glass of the archive vault, bleeding pale color into layers of dust that refused to stir.

Eslara sat upright. Her spine stiff. Her sleep too thick to be natural. A tremor lingered in her fingertips—not fear. Something colder. Older. She pulled on her boots in silence. The floor beneath her feet was a patchwork of greystone, veined like old skin, too dark to be mere mineral. She had checked before. Not cracks—veins. Glyphs curled faintly along the edges, not active... but listening.

She never liked the quiet here. It didn’t rest. It clung.