The Name in the Brass Ward

A narrow alley opens onto a recessed cellar door sunk into the side of a brick counting-house, its frame plated in blackened brass and stamped with four ember-red runes that pulse like a slow heartbeat. The air smells of hot iron, candle soot, and old rain on stone. Each time someone reaches toward the plaque, the runes hiss softly and a thin line of heat crawls across the metal, while the alley's lanterns dim as if the ward is drinking the light. Tiny burned marks around the sockets show that the mechanism has been tried many times, but never forced successfully.