The wind changed.
It wasn't much—a shift so slight most would miss it. But Tian Shen felt it.
Standing at the edge of the orchard, just beyond the stone circle of the Listening Grove, he tilted his head. The air had grown... thinner. Not dangerous. Not yet. But something distant was turning its eyes toward them.
Behind him, the orchard rustled. Leaves whispered secrets in languages older than bone. Plum blossoms fell like stars.
Lan joined him without a word, her cloak trailing dew. She had a habit of arriving like thought: quiet, inevitable.
"The wind speaks?" she asked.
"It listens. And waits."
Lan nodded. "The dreams are shifting, too. People are dreaming of empty chairs and locked doors. Of footsteps that echo but don't belong to anyone they know."
"Warnings?"
"Maybe. Or memories rising like mist."
...
The scouts began preparing, not out of fear, but rhythm.
