After the Declaration
Blackmoor did not riot. It wavered. Aurelia felt it before she saw it, that subtle dissonance threading through the keep like a delayed echo. The mountain still held, steady, present, watchful, but the structures built on it were no longer certain of their footing. Corridors carried sound too far. Runes hesitated before answering familiar hands. Wolves paused mid‑task, not from fear, but from a disquiet they could not name. The world had not ended. But it had blinked. Aurelia sat on the edge of the sanctum bench, spine upright by intention alone, hands folded loosely to prevent the tremor spreading. Her skin prickled as if she had spent too long beneath harsh lights. There was pressure behind her eyes, a throbbing heaviness that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. This wasn’t magic.
- Writer
