The air changes first.
Not sound. Not sight.
Pressure.
The Interstice doesn’t like being crossed without intention, and when it yields, the bones of the house feel it.
Orion goes still in front of me, every line of him sharpening without visible movement. Silas’s presence at my side shifts—subtle, but the space between us closes by a fraction, like instinct just overruled distance.
Then—
Footsteps.
Real ones now.
Stone meeting weight. Measured. Familiar.
My chest tightens so fast it almost hurts.
They’re here.
I don’t move.
I don’t trust my legs.
The corridor at the far end opens into the inner threshold arch, the place where the Interstice breathes people in and out. The wardline there hums faintly, a low, resonant note that thrums in my ribs.
A shadow shifts first.
Broad.
