Just inside the half-round arch of the outer gallery, Hall Mistress Soran halted the party with a raised palm. Seyun looked around the vaulted antechamber with quiet recognition. The western granite pillar still bore the deep, glass-fused scorch mark from twenty winters ago where the midnight surge had blown out the sound seal. The ceiling above had been crudely patched with heavy iron brackets and bolted bronze plates.
For two breaths Soran looked up at that patched ceiling and the fault line on the floor where Chief Examiner Vaska Ren had stepped in front of her kneeling body twenty years ago. Then she turned her back on the old scar without a trace of pause and faced the inner stairs.
“Venn, Tarn,” Soran said in a voice barely above a whisper. She knew the acoustics of the stone would carry any louder sound down the inner stairwell. “Unstrap the two spare supply chests here behind the western pillar. Guard this outer arch and our rear approach along the shelf. If a patrol from the upper ridge guard post comes down the switchbacks while we’re inside the vault, hold the bottleneck at the final slate slab and let the road’s own ceiling seam do half your fighting for you.”
