The altar answered.
Not with words.
Not with a hum.
With heat.
It bloomed through his palm in a flashless ignition—not fire, but something older. The kind of warmth buried in the heart of dying stars. It didn't scorch his skin. It crawled under it, threading through his flesh like a second bloodstream made of light and memory.
Yorrik's hand jerked back—but only for a moment.
The seal beneath his palm had awakened.
He could feel it recognizing him. Not just as Guildmaster. As heir. As the last vessel.
He bit down, hard. Enough to draw blood. Enough to keep standing.
The burn was inside now.
Not pain. Not yet.
Just presence.
It started in his fingers. His nails blackened. Then vanished. The flesh thinned into translucence. His hand looked carved from glass—veins glowing gold beneath the skin, moving in rhythm with his heartbeat like roots feeding a fire tree.
Then the light moved upward.
Fast.
