Breath of the World
The night was not peaceful.
Even after the silence of the Clac, something lingered in the air — a residual vibration, imperceptible to the ear, but pulsing at the back of Dylan's throat like a taut string he had plucked, refusing to still.
He had the impression he'd slit the very skin of the world, and that it was slowly becoming aware of him — turning toward him a dark, curious eye.
The forest had gone mute.
No birdcall, no rustle in the undergrowth. Only the obstinate murmur of the river persisted, like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant.
Julius hadn't moved from his post. He faced the darkness, his face a mask of stone, eyes fixed on the void with an almost animal intensity.
"They felt it."
His voice was barely a breath, but it made the air tighten around them.
Dylan rose slowly, every muscle, every nerve still screaming from fatigue and the aftershocks of regeneration.
"What did?" he rasped, his own voice nothing more than a scrape.
