The Valerius warehouse was a cavernous, three-story building smelling of dust, damp wool, and something else… a faint, cloying sweetness like wilted flowers. Night had fallen, and the only light came from the gas lamps hissing on the street outside.
The team moved like shadows. Borin and Greta secured the perimeter, while the four junior members slipped inside.
"Something's wrong," Cain whispered, his eyes scanning the darkness. As a Sealbearer of Perception, he could see the faint psychic residue left by strong emotions. "There's no malice here. No deception. Just… sadness."
Isolde nodded, her hand raised. "It's quiet. Too quiet." Her power allowed her to feel the absence of sound, and this place felt like a sound-absorbing vacuum.
Ronan focused, letting the [Probability Currents] flow around him. The feeling was bizarre. The threads of fate weren't leading to a confrontation or a trap. They were leading to a point of intense, static grief. "Whatever is here," he murmured, "it's not hunting. It's… waiting. Or mourning."
Liam moved towards a stack of large wooden crates in the center of the room. He could feel a temporal disturbance, a recurring echo. He placed his hand on the rough wood. [Temporal Echo].
The impression that flooded his mind was not of a thief or a monster. It was an overwhelming wave of loss. The memory of a child's laughter, fading away. The feeling of a hand letting go. The echo wasn't from a single event; it was a continuous loop of a single, heartbreaking moment of separation.
"This isn't a Denier," Liam said, pulling his hand back, his voice strained. "This is a wound that never healed."
As he spoke, a soft, sobbing sound echoed from the rafters above. It wasn't human. It was the sound of tearing silk and cracking wood, a sound of something broken trying to hold itself together.