The Weave Hearts pulsed in the center of the territory like steady heartbeats. No one had expected them to bloom so soon. One moment the morning was quiet, the next pockets of the past ripped open across the camps and ridges.
A cluster of refugees near the eastern ridge suddenly stood in the middle of a festival from two cycles ago. Tables loaded with real bread and roasted meat appeared. Music played from nowhere.
People reached out and their hands passed through the food at first, then it solidified. They ate. They danced. Then some refused to leave.
Clara felt it strongest through her scars. The old lines across her arms and shoulders burned hot, pulling her toward every new bloom like threads on a loom. She moved without stopping, boots kicking up dust as she crossed from one site to the next.
