At first, it was nothing. A flicker of misheard rhythm. A hum sung half a beat too slow. In one hearth, a villager claimed that the far towers no longer answered his spark the same way. In another, a caravan worker whispered that her old companions had changed their tune, that the melody had shifted, that perhaps they were no longer truly part of the same fire.
The sparks still glowed — but their warmth felt different.
No frost. No silence. No shadow. Just the faint chill of doubt taking shape inside the hum itself.
Yuran felt it first. Her glow, which had always found harmony effortlessly, now quivered against dissonance. When she walked among the people, she sensed sparks vibrating out of time — slightly sharp, slightly flat.
"They've found a way in," she said quietly to Hei Long.
He sat on the Temple steps, his cloak heavy, eyes dull with exhaustion. "Whispers?"
