The first fracture in the barrier was not violent.
It was intimate.
A faint vibration along the eastern boundary—like a fingertip brushing glass.
Devansh felt it immediately.
He turned sharply toward the rise.
"They're closer," he said.
Rehaan's expression darkened. "They've refined the pattern."
Ira's pulse quickened.
The heaviness in her chest did not surge.
It steadied.
"They're not trying to find the city anymore," she said slowly.
"Then what?" Devansh asked.
She swallowed. "They're trying to find me."
The boundary shimmered.
A thin filament of pale light pressed against it—testing, listening.
Rehaan cursed under his breath. "That's not mapping," he said. "That's contact."
Devansh stepped forward.
"No," Ira said.
He turned to her sharply.
"If you touch that—"
"I won't," she said quietly. "But you can't either."
His jaw tightened. "This is my responsibility."
"And I'm the one they're reaching for," she replied. "This isn't your mistake alone anymore."
The filament brightened faintly.
Devansh's awareness flared through the city's deeper layers.
He felt the ancient laws strain.
Containment protocols that had never anticipated her.
He stepped between her and the boundary.
Instinct.
Not command.
Not duty.
Orientation.
The realization struck him with unsettling clarity.
He was not defending the city.
He was shielding her.
Ira stared at him. "Devansh…"
"If they cross," he said quietly, "they will not take you."
Her breath stilled.
"You don't know that," she said.
He met her gaze.
"I do."
Because something inside him had already reorganized around that outcome.
The filament pressed closer.
The boundary vibrated.
Rehaan watched the exchange between them with narrowed eyes.
"Well," he murmured, "that answers that."
"Answers what?" Ira asked.
He did not look at her.
"He's no longer protecting Vayukshi," Rehaan said.
The boundary flared faintly.
"He's chosen a variable."
And for the first time in centuries, Devansh stood in opposition to the very laws that defined him.