Tyla’s POV
The world almost breaks on a Tuesday.
Not the dramatic kind of breaking—the kind that comes with fire and prophecy and the clean satisfaction of knowing where to stand. This is a quieter fracture, a hairline crack running through something that has been held together by trust and exhaustion and the hope that people will keep choosing each other.
It begins with grain.
The western harvest fails.
Not completely. Not catastrophically. Enough to matter. Enough to scare.
A blight moves through the low fields with an intelligence that feels personal even when it isn’t. Yields drop. Prices rise. Rumors spread faster than the fungus itself. By the time the council receives the first consolidated report, the city has already started to lean inward, arms folding protectively around w
