Kezra Venn tapped the sixteenth and final grid intersection of the storage chamber with a soft, disciplined strike of her horn mallet. She withdrew the brass rod half an inch before the rebound wave could pulse back into her wrist, angling her head so her good right ear caught the fading, bell-like hum. The sound was sweet, clear, and uniform—native pale limestone bedrock resting unbroken beneath four courses of level, dry-laid limestone flags.
Behind her, Paxa Sel released her light touch on Kezra’s mastoid bone. “Pulse seventy-six,” the healer reported, her voice carrying the quiet satisfaction of a successful procedure. “Zero mastoid buzz, zero vestibular dizziness. Your ears took the shaking cleanly.”
Fellis Dain leaned over his tally slate by the doorway, ruling a heavy double line across the bottom of the sixteenth column. “All sixteen points checked. No hidden voids, no unrecorded timber ties. The rear footing mortised two feet into native bedrock. The shape is closed, Kezra. You can cut the anchors.”
Kezra rose from the floor, wiping the cold grey rock-dust from her palms onto her apron. She picked up her three-pound steel chisel and the short iron mallet. Then she stepped out through the chamber doorway onto the stone landing of the service stair.
