Quinn POV
There is a bending of the psych sphere, I feel it before the alarms flare, before the wards whisper panic through the stone and steel of the safehouse. The air tightens, like a held breath. The kind that precedes a scream.
The cosmos was shifting like an alignment. It was not subtle. It had been years since anything like this had happened.
It's not subtle. It never is when a new move is made. The heavens have started meddling again.
I stand alone in the observatory, a circular chamber carved beneath Mondrovia's oldest strata. The walls are etched with sigils older than 'The Veil' itself. The ceiling is a false sky: a lattice of living glass that maps the firmament in real time, stars pulsing in slow, patient rhythms. I've always trusted the stars; they tell the truth when people won't.
Tonight, they stutter.
A constellation flickers briefly and then reforms into something I don't recognise.
My fingers curl around the railing.
