The lights changed.
Not a flicker. Not a dim.
A shift—from function to intent.
Tessa didn't hear it. She felt it—like her bones recognized the difference before her mind did.
The spiral etched into the floor beneath her boots lit up from beneath, not brightly but deliberately, like something that had been waiting for a signal, for a match, and finally found it.
The room didn't warm. It cooled.
The air went still. The walls stilled. The floor hummed under her weight—not loud, but responsive. A tremor that wasn't threatening.
Not yet.
A perimeter of light formed around her. Circular. Clean. Sharp as a blade's edge.
"Camilla?" she called out.
The resonance tracker in Camilla's hand screamed once—too high for comfort—then went dead in her palm.
Camilla cursed.
Overhead, filament bulbs snapped to life in unison, flooding the chamber in surgical white. They formed a perfect ring around Tessa, isolating her in the center.
