Something was wrong with the wind.
Arin Vale stood at the edge of Eldrin Hollow's riverbank, watching the current flow in unnatural silence. The water moved, but it made no sound. No rush. No splash. Even the reeds at the edge seemed hesitant to sway.
It had been three days since the spiral had glowed in his sketchbook. Three days since that faint hum had taken root in his chest.
It hadn't left.
Not once.
He couldn't explain it, not even to himself. It wasn't pain. It wasn't fear. It was like… like the world had a hidden breath, and he was starting to hear it inhale.
And now the river was too quiet.
"Arin!" a voice called behind him.
He turned. Sera, a fellow student from the academy, jogged down the slope. She was sharp-eyed, louder than necessary, and always three steps ahead of the rules. She stopped next to him, hands on hips.
"Been looking for you all morning. You skipping sword practice again?"
Arin shrugged. "I wasn't feeling it today."
"You never feel it."
He offered a small smile. "I like watching things move better than swinging sticks."
She rolled her eyes, but followed his gaze to the river.
"It's quiet," she said, frowning.
"Too quiet."
Elsewhere, across the Kael Dominion, others had started to notice.
In the city of Narinth, a blacksmith's hammer shattered mid-strike—not from force, but from the sudden twist of invisible pressure in the air.
In the desert of Sael, a caravan of traders reported glowing stones buried beneath the sand, pulsing with warmth though the sun had set.
And in the Temple of Senn, the high priest fell to his knees mid-sermon, overcome by a vision he could not explain—of mortals ascending, gods falling, and a force neither holy nor evil, but absolute.
They called it madness.
But deep down, they all felt it:
The world was waking up.
Back in Eldrin Hollow, Arin sat alone that night, flipping through his sketchbook. The spiral had returned. Not glowing—just… drawn again. He didn't remember doing it.
But this time, there was something else beside it.
A symbol.
A series of dots and lines he didn't recognize.
He ran his fingers over the page.
The hum in his chest responded.
He dropped the book, heart pounding.
Then came the whisper.
Not in words.
Not in sound.
Just the clear thought:
"You are seen."
He stood, breath shaking, and looked out his window.
Above the hills, clouds swirled. Not dark or stormy—just moving too precisely. Like drawn into patterns by invisible hands.
And in that moment, he knew something was coming.
He didn't know what.
But the next day, the world would no longer be the same.
Far above the mortal plane, in the realm of the gods, Lurae watched the pattern in her loom twist again. Threads she had never woven were braiding themselves—forming sigils, spirals, paths.
The gods watched.
And they were powerless to stop it.