Atlas woke with the scarred arm burning again. Not the usual sharp pain, but a steady tug, like something inside the territory was pulling him toward the eastern ridges.
He sat up in the dim shelter, flexing his fingers. The scars had spread further overnight, thick lines that moved under his skin when he wasn't looking.
Clara stirred beside him, her face drawn even in sleep. The boy was already awake, watching from the corner with those quiet eyes that saw too much.
"We go today," Atlas said. "The largest chamber yet. Bring tools and rations. No one goes alone."
Clara didn't argue. She packed her instruments without a word, her hands steady but her eyes distant. Lara joined them at the edge of the district, carrying a satchel of fresh memory crystals from the last caravan run.
The territory had changed again in the night—new paths had grown between the districts, wider and more deliberate, as if the living empire was trying to connect its pieces on its own.
