The Last Word Dais

A round chamber of black stone opens around a low dais ringed with brass letters, and the air tastes faintly of dust, wax, and cold iron. Four pale candles flicker without flame, their light tightening and loosening as if they are listening. On the far wall, a slate of engraved verse catches torchlight in sharp silver strokes, and each spoken word sends a soft echo skittering through the room. When a phrase is right, the brass inlay warms; when it is wrong, the floor grate sighs out a breath of frost.