A low, grating drone scraped against the basalt walls.
It started as a single dry rasp, like sandpaper rubbing against rusty iron. Within three breaths, a second voice joined the chant, followed by a third, a tenth, and then hundreds more.
The sound swelled into an ear-splitting chorus of hollow, mechanical chanting:
“Circulate the marrow. Burn the red blood. Smelt the golden bone for the Sovereign Sun.”
Kaelen’s left eyelid twitched beneath his straw hat.
He pulled the wool blanket tighter over his ears, burying his head deep into the down pillow. But the sound was not purely physical. It carried a piercing spiritual frequency that vibrated straight through the crystal floor, rattling his celadon teacup in its wicker holder.
“Pound the celestial mortar. Siphon the living spring. Diligence is virtue. Rest is treason.”
Kaelen sat bolt upright.
