The morning after the tent burned, the world felt slightly wrong.
The air was quieter — too quiet. Even the gulls over Nadir's coast screamed like they were far underwater.
When Cael opened his eyes, the light in the room shivered once, like something nervous.
Aunt Mara sat at the table with her hands wrapped around a mug that had gone cold long ago.
Her face was pale. The lines at the corners of her mouth had deepened overnight.
"You shouldn't be awake yet," she said without turning.
Cael pushed himself up. The bandages around his chest pulsed faintly. The mark — that thin, glowing stitch of light — had turned dull silver now, as if it had sunk into the skin.
"What happened to the others?" he asked.
Mara's jaw tightened. "You'll rest."
Her tone didn't leave room for more questions, so Cael stayed silent. But the silence was not empty.
It was listening.
He felt it again — that strange pull, the one that lived behind sound. When he exhaled, he thought he heard something whisper the breath back, perfectly timed, like an echo with intent.
---
The villagers acted like nothing had happened.
That was how Cael knew something was very wrong.
The market reopened by noon. Smoke stains still blackened the street, and the cobbles where the Order's tent had stood gleamed faintly, as if someone had painted them with mercury.
No one mentioned it. Not once.
Mara sold herbs in silence, her eyes flicking at every passerby.
Cael wandered to the old well, pretending to skip stones, pretending not to notice the way the fog pressed tighter around the edges of the square.
That's when he saw her — the girl who painted with ash.
Sera.
She was kneeling near the ruined tent site, sketching with a stick of charcoal on torn parchment. The air around her shimmered slightly — not from heat, but from attention.
Cael walked closer. "You're drawing it?"
She didn't look up. "Someone has to. The world forgets fast."
He peered over her shoulder. The picture wasn't of the tent. It was of him.
A small figure, standing in the light, eyes wide. His chest glowed where the mark should be.
Cael froze. "How—?"
Sera smudged the page. "I saw it too," she whispered. "The light left stains. Not just on the ground."
Her gaze flicked to his chest, then away.
"I draw them before they fade."
---
When she spoke, her words left ripples in the air — faint, transparent distortions, as if sound itself had shape.
Cael blinked, thinking it was his imagination, but when she said, "I'm fine," the ripple cracked apart like breaking glass.
The truth rejected her.
He stared, heart pounding. The mark on his chest throbbed once in recognition.
"What did you just—"
Sera frowned. "What?"
He tried to explain, but his voice tangled in his throat.
How do you tell someone you can see lies breathe?
Instead, he said softly, "Do you ever hear things that shouldn't be there?"
Her hand paused. "Always," she said.
She pointed to the space between them. "Listen close enough, and even silence has a heartbeat."
---
That night, Cael lay awake staring at the ceiling. The mark on his chest pulsed faintly, keeping time with something invisible.
The world was quiet again — but it was a wrong kind of quiet, the kind that waits.
The question that had started everything clawed its way back up his throat.
> "Why did you look?"
He hadn't meant to say it aloud. But the silence heard him anyway.
And this time, the silence answered.
> "Because you wanted to."
Cael turned toward the mirror beside his bed — and saw his reflection still smiling.
---
End of Chapter 2
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