The first time the mark pulsed in a pattern, Rhaen almost tripped.
Three short throbs behind her heart. One long pull.
Her boot landed on the faint guiding trace just as the last beat ended, and the tunnel ahead… shifted.
Not like a trap springing. Like a throat swallowing.
The stone on the left wall looked the same, but the scrape marks on the floor slid a finger's width to the right, and a rail groove that had been cracked a moment ago was now clean, like something had licked it smooth.
Rhaen did not speak.
She only lifted two fingers to the Sea-Glass operative.
Three. One.
The operative's eyes tightened behind their mask. They wrote fast on the slate.
IT TURNS ON THAT.
Rhaen nodded once.
So it's not just pain. It's a signal. A steering wheel.
She took the next step when the long pulse finished.
The air stayed stable.
Her ribs screamed anyway, but she made her breathing match the pattern, like she was trying to walk in time with a drummer she hated.
