The tremor came without warning.
One moment, the enormous hall was peaceful, the morning meal underway, the voices of warriors and servants rising and falling in the familiar rhythm of daily life. Next, the world convulsed. The stone floor bucked beneath our feet, throwing servants from their benches, sending cups and plates crashing to the ground. The high windows rattled in their frames, and the ancient walls groaned with the strain of forces older than the fortress itself.
I was on my feet before the tremor faded, my hands gripping the edge of the high table, my heart pounding. The ember in my chest flared, not the steady warmth of healing, not the controlled blaze of battle, but something else. Something raw. Something fearful.
It was responding to the tremor. Not to the shaking of the stone, but to whatever had caused it.
The Rift.
