Rhaen's first breath outside tasted like moss, cold stone, and a life that did not belong to a dungeon.
It was not open air. It was a narrow crack between two slabs of rock, just wide enough for a person to stand if they didn't mind scraping their shoulders raw. Wind slid through it in thin, stubborn threads.
Still—air.
Rhaen pressed her palm to her chest, right over the place the mark lived like a second heart.
Inside, the core had pulled like gravity. Heavy. Certain.
Here, that weight thinned. Not gone, but distant—like the dungeon's hand was reaching through a long sleeve.
But the other pull…
Rhaen's jaw tightened.
That one felt sharper above ground. Cleaner. Like a string tugged from far away.
Ritual.
The Sea‑Glass operative stood half a step behind her, slate already in hand. Their mask hid their mouth, but not their eyes. Their eyes kept flicking to Rhaen's chest like they expected the mark to show itself in the air.
Rhaen tried to breathe without flinching.
