Elena turned back to the gate’s inscription. Not a phrase. A summons. A ritual instruction.

Then she divided differently:

Then she saw it. Not a translation—a transformation.

Tnzyl... aghnyt... alwd... llmwt... wbd.

Except the storm.

She read the Atbash result as consonantal roots:

Tnzyl... aghnyt... alwd... llmwt... wbd.

She deciphered it not by cipher, but by the old tongue’s verb structure: