He does not hear him this time. A ten second count—then eleven, twelve, thirteen,

the Darkling gazes up at that strange monument from the very foot of it

fifteen, eighteen,

and lays his hand upon it, just to see. The spark that meets his touch first buzzes, then melts into a yawn, impossibly wide, a vast and ancient thing that first pulls his face slack and then creases it with something like strained recognition—

and still his face, his body, they do nothing.