The golden light coming from the depths of the quartz plate did not flicker like oil smoke or pine pitch.
It burned with a steady, terrible purity that cast long, needle-sharp shadows up the granite curve of the vaulted ceiling. Every chisel mark on the ashlar blocks stood out in high relief, etched against the dark stone by the radiant amber luminescence. Along the floor grooves, the fine ferns of frost sparkled like powdered diamonds, crackling faintly as the heat radiating from the crystal surface clashed against the subterranean chill.
Jon Hale stood two paces back from the pedestal, his good left hand shading his brow from the glare.
Within the four-inch slab of warded quartz, the three words burned with searing clarity:
RESTORE PRIMARY PATTERN.
The letters were not carved into the stone; they were composed of thousands of hair-thin copper filaments that had aligned themselves beneath the surface, heated to white incandescence by the surge of power from the deep core. Below the script, intricate concentric circles of micro-engraved runes slowly revolved, their geometric teeth meshing with the silent, terrible precision of an astronomical clock.
Sir Cael Ardent stood transfixed.
His right hand was raised, his fingers splayed, hovering less than an inch above the cold, polished surface of the crystal. The skin of his palm was scored with dried blood from the rim of the returner’s seal, the dark crust peeling in the intense heat coming off the plate. His face was entirely illuminated by the amber…
