I can’t sleep.
Northfall won’t let me.
The word loops through my mind like a fracture in glass—thin, sharp, impossible to ignore.
Three hundred and twelve years ago, two divine siblings attempted full convergence without discipline.
Ley lines fractured.
Packs collapsed.
Magic destabilized.
And three divine carriers chose death to stop it.
Self-sacrifice.
The idea sits like a stone in my stomach.
The baby shifts softly, a reminder of everything I refuse to let happen.
I slip out of bed and move through the quiet compound toward the archive wing.
If Northfall was real, there will be traces.
Ashcroft isn’t the type to invent historical trauma for manipulation. He believes in his doctrine. That means he saw something real.
Morgan is already there.
Of course she is.
She looks up
