Virelia had always been a city that trusted patterns.
The tides came when they always had. The bells rang when they should. Storms were loud but honest, announcing themselves with thunder before they broke. Even fear had once been predictable.
Not anymore.
Virelia did not sleep easily anymore.
Even at dawn, when the city should have been shaking itself awake with routine and predictability, something lingered in the air—tight, uneasy, expectant.
That morning, the wind came first—dry, restless, carrying grit that stung the eyes. It rattled shutters that had withstood decades of worse storms and whispered through alleyways like a warning that no one could quite name.
Merchants opened their stalls with one eye on the sky. Fishermen argued with priests before setting sail. Mothers pulled their children closer when temple bells rang too loudly.
Fear had learned to walk openly among them.
