The weaver's voice rises to a shout — a single word, sharp and resonant. The candle flames all gutter at once, then flare back a deep, pulsing red. A low thrum vibrates through the stone under your boots.

Through the gap in the curtain, you see the dagger in the circle begin to glow — a dull, hungry orange, like iron pulled from a forge. The weaver's hands tremble as he holds them over the blade, chanting faster now, sweat gleaming on his face.

Rina's fingers brush your arm. She points — past the curtain, where the corridor curves right. A heavy wooden door, banded in iron. The same crest: a fist gripping a gear.

The weaver's chant is building toward its final note. The dagger pulses brighter. Whatever he's summoning is almost here.

You have seconds.