It began with the birds.
Not their song. Their silence.
In New York, pigeons dropped from skyscraper ledges like stones. In Nairobi, vultures abandoned their thermals mid-soar. In Jakarta, parrots fell silent in cages—beaks open, eyes wide, as if they'd just remembered something ancient and terrible.
Then the trees spoke.
Not in words. In roots.
Beneath Geneva's polished plazas, oaks older than the city cracked through marble. In Shanghai, banyans burst from subway vents, swallowing escalators whole. In São Paulo, a ceiba tree tore through a data center, its bark humming at 7.83 Hz—the Schumann resonance, the heartbeat of Earth itself.
Victoria stood on her balcony, watching snow fall upward.
She didn't blink.
"Phase Omega," she whispered. "They're awake."
Luna felt it first in her bones.
