The patrol briefing room smelled of old parchment and mana residue.
Captain Harlan Greve stood at the front, arms crossed as he addressed the assembled candidates. His hair was greying at the temples, armor scarred by years of use rather than neglect.
"Listen carefully," he said. "Threat levels are being revised."
Murmurs spread.
"We've had three incidents in the last ten days where expected resistance did not match projections," Greve continued. "Monsters exhibiting abnormal aggression. Dungeons escalating faster than predicted."
Someone raised a hand. "Is this another surge?"
Greve hesitated. Just briefly.
"No," he said. "It's something else."
Assignments were handed out. Pairings adjusted. Routes redrawn.
Elian scanned his sheet, brow furrowing. "They moved my patrol sector."
"Mine too," Rhea said. "Closer to the western passes."
That region again.
I checked mine.
Unchanged.
As we filed out, Greve's gaze lingered on me. Not accusing. Evaluative.
Later, during a joint exercise, Elian stumbled.
Not badly. Just enough.
The construct opposing him surged unexpectedly, output spiking beyond its normal threshold. Rhea's barrier flickered under the pressure.
I intervened.
One step. One strike. The construct collapsed instantly.
The exercise ended.
"Output variance recorded," an instructor muttered. "That wasn't supposed to happen."
Elian straightened slowly, breathing hard.
"That thing felt… angry," he said quietly.
Rhea laughed weakly. "Constructs aren't angry."
"No," he agreed. "But something is."
I looked at the broken platform. At the fractured sigils.
At the way the mana lines had twisted just before collapsing.
For the first time, I didn't dismiss the irregularity immediately.
Not because it threatened me.
But because it didn't seem aimed at me at all.