Arthur’s POV
The city wakes up wrong.
Not quiet. Not loud.
Off-tempo.
I feel it before I see it—an unevenness in the air, like a song everyone knows suddenly missing a beat. People move with purpose but no rhythm. Conversations start and stop without finding shape. The Mark rests, unprovoked, yet something beneath it hums with watchful tension.
Not fear.
Expectation.
I step onto the balcony and scan the streets below. No panic. No crowds. Just a density of attention turned inward, like the city is holding something in its mouth, waiting to decide whether to swallow or spit it out.
“Tyla?” I call softly.
She joins me moments later, hair loose, eyes already awake.
“They’re waiting,” she says.
“For what?”
She tilts her head, listening. “For us to do something.”
I exhale through m
