It started with a flicker.
Not in the Mirrorthread, or on the edge-codes, or even at Threadfall's roots. This flicker possessed no glyphtag, no render-sequence, no trail.
And yet—it was experienced.
Kaito spotted it walking alone along the Threadrift Basin, a barren expanse of land newly created between Ashbend and the old war-nodes.
The ground here undulated with memory—but not his. There was rain in the air, and every step he took sounded softer than it would have.
And then, before him—just for a moment—something changed.
It wasn't glitchy. It wasn't some hostile entity or busted render. No shimmering overlay. No script-tag.
It was a silhouette. Small. Still.
And utterly unmarked.
Kaito stopped. He blinked.
And it was gone. But not destroyed.
Just… elsewhere.
Elsewhere, in the new Grove of Listening, Ori felt her thread-stone shift temperature in her palms.
She looked up. No one was there. But her heart pounded anyway.
"Lana?" she whispered.
The trees whispered back.
