He turned to leave, but paused once more. From afar, the markings still pulsed in his vision—were they decay, or design? He shifted left, aligning himself beneath the vaulted ceiling’s apex. Ten, maybe fifteen meters above, the stars seemed to observe him in return. He leaned in, squinting—eyes that once devoured marginalia with ease, now challenged by time and distance. He took another step.
His boot struck brass. A candelabra scraped the stone with a metallic shriek, jolting him back to the present. The mystery dissolved for a moment as reality reasserted itself, sharp and graceless.
The sense of awakening did not fade. But neither did he speak the glyphs aloud. Not here. Not yet. That would risk more than he was prepared to explain.
He lingered, hand resting on the wall beside him. The stone was cool, but not impassive—it felt as if it held a pulse of its own, slow and ancient. For years, this Abbey had been a sanctuary, a duty, a routine. But now, the familiar felt unstable. The silence, too aware. The light, too sharp.
Had the symbols always been there, hidden by dust and inattention? Or had they truly just... arrived?
And if they had—why now?
Maurice swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He could not shake the feeling that something had crossed a line. Not an event. Not a person. A shift. Something just beyond the veil of reason, reaching in.
And if it had returned—whatever it was—it would not come quietly. He dragged his gaze from the ceiling and remembered, with a small jolt of irritation, the waiting Archbishop and the ticking clock.