The first crack does not look like failure.
It looks like strain.
⸻
Jason notices it at dawn.
Not on the borders.
Not in the rebel territories.
But inside the heart of Blood Moon itself.
He pauses mid-calibration, brow furrowing as one of the arrays hesitates—just for a breath.
Then resumes.
Too clean.
Too practiced.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he murmurs.
⸻
The heir sleeps peacefully, bundled in woven ward-cloth, their breathing steady and warm.
Zane watches them from across the chamber, alert as ever.
Jason clears his throat.
“Zane,” he says carefully.
“I need you to feel this.”
Zane steps closer.
The moment his palm touches the stone beside the array, he feels it.
A faint resistance.
Not hostile.
Not dangerous.
Uneven.
“The land pushed back,” Zane says slowly
