Morning came to Caelum reluctantly, as though the city itself hesitated before letting the light in. Fog clung low to the roofs—a bruised veil swallowing edges, softening sound. It should have felt peaceful. It didn't.
Arin and Lira moved through streets that seemed narrower than usual, as if the walls had pressed closer overnight. Dawn soaked everything in pale tint, flattening depth, stretching shadows long and thin.
People stood at thresholds but did not step out. They watched the Wardens instead—silent, uneasy, waiting for someone else to speak first.
A horn had called them here. A warning. A summons. And something wrong lay ahead.
*******
Wardens blocked the western lane, their formation rigid, armor catching dim light in sharp, cold flashes.
Arin felt the pull before he saw the source—a pressure sliding beneath his skin, intrusive, like a thought he didn't want but couldn't stop having.
Beside him, Lira exhaled. "You feel that too." Not a question.
He nodded.
The crowd parted for her—quiet respect for her mother's legacy—and Arin followed, head lowered, heartbeat uneven.
The officer kneeling at the disturbance did not look up. Broad-shouldered, slate-blue armor etched with old service marks, scar cutting temple to jaw. His pale-blue eyes fixed on the sigil woven into the cobblestone.
Arin's breath caught. The same spiral he had seen in his dream.
A trembling pattern of Weave-light—washed, fragile, barely there. Not illumination. Not a spell. More like light leaking through from beneath the stones.
The officer spoke quietly, as though sound itself might disturb it. "It manifested at dawn. No caster. No residue. Just this."
Residents muttered prayers. Some made protective gestures. Children clung to parents, sensing dread without knowing why.
"Is it dangerous?" someone whispered.
"We don't know," the officer admitted.
He reached toward the spiral, stopping short. "It hums. Like it's alive. Or aware."
Arin's body tightened. The humming wasn't sound—it was vibration in his bones. Each pulse sent a shiver up his spine.
Lira's gaze cut toward him, reading what he tried—and failed—to hide.
Then the spiral flickered. Once. Twice. And went out.
The pull vanished like a string cut. Cold air rushed in to fill the absence. The street seemed painfully normal again. Too normal.
Wardens stared at empty stones as if waiting for the sigil to return—or for themselves to wake from a shared nightmare.
Lira whispered, "It disappeared exactly the way it appeared. From nothing."
Arin swallowed. "No. Not nothing."
She turned. "What do you mean?"
He shook his head, regretting the words. "I just… felt something when it vanished." He didn't say I felt it move through me. Even admitting that much made his skin crawl.
The officer rose. "Seal the street. Nobody enters. Nobody touches the stones. And for the gods' sake, nobody repeats what they think they saw."
Whispers erupted—because forbidding speech was the surest way to guarantee it.
Lira nudged Arin. "We should go."
He nodded, relieved to leave the weight of the vanished spiral behind.
But as they stepped into the fog-heavy morning, neither noticed the shift in Arin's shadow—how it lagged too long before catching up. How a faint, invisible line of pale light wove itself into its outline.
Something had not vanished. Something had moved.
*******
The city did not relax after the sigil disappeared. If anything, the streets felt tighter. Doors stayed barred. Conversations died when footsteps approached.
Arin and Lira walked without speaking. The fog tasted metallic now, tinged with ozone that should not have existed outside a Warden casting hall.
Finally, Lira said, "I don't like this."
"Which part?" Arin whispered.
"All of it."
He almost smiled. Almost.
They passed a shuttered bakery, yesterday's dough souring in the damp air. A stray dog watched from beneath a sagging porch, tail tucked tight.
Caelum's heartbeat felt irregular.
Lira slowed. "We need to talk about what happened back there."
Arin tensed. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Arin." Her tone was soft but firm—a voice that invited truth more than demanded it.
He stared into the fog, half-expecting shapes to emerge. "I just… felt something. That's all."
"That's not normal."
"I know."
He rubbed his hands together. His palms tingled where faint lights had appeared the night before.
He didn't realize Lira was watching until she caught his wrist gently. "You've been off for days. More than off."
He didn't pull away.
"It's getting worse, isn't it?" she asked quietly.
Arin exhaled, breath trembling. "I don't know what's happening to me. I dream things. Then they happen. I feel things I shouldn't. The Weave—" He stopped, unable to say the rest.
Lira's grip softened. "We'll find answers. Together."
He closed his eyes, letting himself believe her for one fragile moment.
Then the fog stirred—not with wind, but with intention.
Arin turned sharply. Nothing moved. But the fog felt… aware. Watching. Waiting.
Lira's hand drifted to her belt pouch, fingertips brushing the clasps. "Something's wrong with this part of the city."
Arin nodded slowly.
The spiral had disappeared. But its echo had not.