The storm broke at dawn—except it wasn't a storm.
Cain felt it before he heard it: a pressure ripple rolling across the world like a thrown stone skimming the surface of water. It hit his ribs first, then his spine, then the base of his skull, vibrating through every nerve as if someone was tapping an invisible tuning fork inside him.
He stopped walking.
Eira, who'd been half-dragging him along the mountain trail, nearly crashed into his back. "Don't freeze on me now. We're barely two ridges away from that death pit—"
Cain lifted a hand. "Listen."
Eira fell silent instantly.
The mountains groaned.
Not from shifting stone or natural erosion—this was deeper, wider, resonant, like the range itself was being pushed outward by something enormous beneath the crust. Birds burst from the trees below, panicked flocks scattering across the sky in every direction.
Then came the sound.
A tearing.
Reality being peeled open.
Eira swore under her breath. "It's moving."
