The morning came slow, like Aevum was tired of holding itself steady. Eryndor woke before the others, the kind of half-alert state where your mind is moving before your body agrees to follow. The air outside the lean-to felt heavier than yesterday, not dangerous, just… charged. Old Stormwood trees creaked in a rhythm that didn't match the wind, like they were listening to something deep under the soil.
He stepped out anyway. The ground was damp, soft, almost warm under his feet. A thin mist hovered at ankle height. It moved on its own, ignoring the breeze. He knew enough by now not to treat that as a good sign.
Aras came out a moment later, blinking hard, hair a mess. She looked like she hadn't slept, which wasn't surprising. Her mark was still faintly lit even in daylight, pulsing once every few breaths like a heartbeat out of sync.
"Did you feel that?" she said.
"Yeah."
Neither of them clarified what that meant. The Veil-shift last night didn't disappear; it was lingering, settling into the world like dust after a collapse. You didn't need a scholar to tell you the rules around them were different now.
The camp was quiet except for Vale turning over in his sleep and muttering something sharp under his breath. It wasn't a nightmare voice. It was focused. Controlled. Almost like he was talking to someone he trusted. Eryndor didn't wake him. Something about it felt private, even if Vale wouldn't remember a word of it when he opened his eyes.
When the sun finally pushed past the treeline, it didn't brighten the forest so much as expose it. Colors were too vivid. Shadows held their shape too long. Even the birds seemed careful with their calls, as if testing which parts of the world were still playing by old rules.
Aras crouched near the moss bed and touched a few strands between her fingers. The green shifted to a blue she'd never seen before, then slowly bled back to normal. No sound, no energy spike, just a soft flicker of reality remembering the wrong texture.
"This shouldn't be happening yet," she said quietly.
"Yet?" Eryndor asked.
She looked up at him, and he saw it — the kind of fear people only get when they've already run the numbers and didn't like the outcome.
"There's something pulling on the Veil. Something big. And it's not just us anymore."
A branch snapped deeper in the woods.
Not loud. Not threatening. Just a simple crack.
But every living thing around them went still.
Eryndor reached for his blade. Aras's mark brightened. Vale finally woke, breath sharp, ready before he understood why.
The forest didn't move. The mist didn't move. Even the wind seemed to hold back, waiting.
One more crack. Closer.
And then a voice — soft, calm, almost apologetic.
"Don't draw. I'm here to warn you, not kill you."
A figure stepped between the trees. Cloaked. Alone. But the Veil around them bent like fabric under a strong hand.
Not a threat.
Not a friend.
Something older.
Something watching.
And something that knew exactly who they were becoming.