The dawn that broke across the frozen battlefield was thin and pale, a fragile wash of gold over a world still trembling from recent ruin. East stood at the edge of the crater, the cold light brushing his face, but his attention was fixed beyond it — toward the northern horizon, where the mist hung unnaturally still.
Snow was not falling there.
In fact, nothing was moving at all.
Sun, breathing hard but recovering his fire, followed East's line of sight and frowned. "That… patch of sky is wrong," he muttered. "Feels like it's holding its breath."
"It is," East replied.
The wind shifted — but the mist did not.
It remained suspended, as though the world had forgotten to animate that part of reality.
Then it throbbed.
Once.
