The moon hadn't risen yet, but it could be felt.
That was what unnerved Kael most.
He stood by the outer kiln, ash in his hair and soot smeared across one cheek, watching the wind stall mid-gust like it, too, was waiting. The forge fires behind him pulsed low, no longer flaring but breathing—steady and warm, like something dreaming beneath the stone.
"Kael," Sira called quietly from the archway.
He turned, still holding a pair of iron tongs in one hand. "Hm?"
She didn't speak immediately. Just crossed her arms and leaned against the stone, her eyes following a black kite that drifted in lazy circles far above the eastern ridge.
"The barrier's humming again," she said. "Not loud. But it's changed pitch. Felt it in my teeth."
"Pressure?" Kael asked.
"Or presence."
They exchanged a glance that needed no elaboration.
Kael wiped his hands on a cloth and followed her toward the center corridor. The camp wasn't silent—tools clinked, voices murmured—but everything felt muted, careful. Like every movement was a question and every footstep an offering.
At the center of it all, Riku stood by the water basin, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms slicked with mineral oil. He wasn't speaking. Just staring down into the pool's faint glow—runoff from the Hollow veins, filtered through sediment tanks, now used for ritual cooling and testing.
Sira stopped beside him. "It's close."
Riku didn't nod. Didn't speak. But the way his fingers dipped into the surface—testing the warmth, the density—said he already knew.
"The Blood Moon's not due for another four days," Kael murmured.
"That's the outer clock," Riku replied. "There's another."
He pulled his hand from the water. Droplets clung, refused to fall.
Kael noticed. So did Sira.
"The Hollow changed our pacing," Riku continued. "The world doesn't tick on one axis anymore. What's above no longer reflects what stirs below."
He wiped his hand on the stone edge.
"We'll treat it like three days."
Kael didn't argue. "I've already halved rotation cycles. Patrols are doubled, obsidian nets tested. We won't be caught pacing ourselves again."
Sira's brow furrowed. "And the underground?"
Riku's gaze shifted toward the southern ridge. He didn't answer right away.
Then: "It's listening. But not echoing."
Kael frowned. "Meaning?"
"It hasn't rejected us," Riku said. "But it hasn't accepted us, either. It's still waiting to decide."
Sira folded her arms. "We can't afford to wait with it."
"No," Riku said. "Which is why I'll move first."
They turned to him fully then.
"You're going back down?" Kael asked, incredulous.
Riku nodded. "One more descent. Alone. At the threshold, not beyond."
Sira stepped forward. "That thing—whatever it is—was reacting to us as a group. What if it views solitary return as aggression?"
"Then it'll know I'm not here to ask anymore," Riku said, voice steady.
Silence folded in.
Kael finally exhaled through his nose, lips a flat line. "We'll keep the kiln hot."
Riku looked between them. "No movement without my mark. The camp holds. Prepare them quietly. No speech. No countdown."
Sira didn't argue. Neither did Kael.
And so, at twilight, as the camp continued in muted rhythm, Riku packed nothing but a hand-forged blade, the Sovereign Spindle wrapped in cloth, and a shard of the rootstone embedded in a ring of volcanic metal. No armor. No banner. Just intention.
At the mouth of the descent tunnel, the air had already thickened.
He paused.
Ran his fingers along the inner wall.
The obsidian was warm.
Welcoming?
Or simply aware.
He stepped inside.
Behind him, Blackridge held its breath again. But this time, it wasn't waiting for survival.
It was waiting to be called.
To be seen.
And far below, something ancient shifted.