No such luck. But the metal made a bright clinking sound, vibrated faintly as though the bite was stronger than it really was.

Martin Darkov's bones were melted into that metal, as was custom. Baby teeth: nothing when lost is sorely missed, but utterly necessary. No matter where the expanse beyond Time took him, he would hear the chime his bones would make when struck by another's. That was the way of Darkovs and their sundered souls.

The medallion was the bell, bones chiming and calling out to itself to the little metal door between Catsovi's teeth. A stranger knocking.

What was, remained, and became much more than Martin Darkov drew to the door, pressing against the threshold that separated him from Exsilium. He came to be through air and light, a figment that took form in three: the boy, the lion, and man.

All three moved near, bent or reaching for his door, stopping short as its awareness of Castovi grew.

Stranger, but not utterly. And a threat.