Night fell wrong.
Stars appeared where they should not exist, constellations rearranging themselves like a nervous system firing in patterns that made no sense to mortal eyes. The moon fractured into overlapping images—three phases at once—casting uneven shadows across the stone sanctuary where Amaya lay.
She hadn't slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, the sky bled gold again.
Calix sat beside her on the low stone platform, back against the wall, sword resting across his knees. He hadn't slept either. He watched the room the way predators did—quiet, alert, ready to tear reality apart if it so much as twitched.
The fox king lingered near the entrance, unusually still.
"This place won't hold forever," he said at last.
Amaya didn't look at him. "Neither will I."
Calix's fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade.
Silence stretched—thick, uncomfortable.
