Arthur’s POV
The first crisis they don’t tell me about almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
I find out by accident, passing through the south quarter at dusk, when the air carries a faint metallic tang that shouldn’t be there. It’s subtle—old instincts catch it before conscious thought does. A strain along the Veil’s edge, localized, contained.
Handled.
I stop walking.
The Mark does nothing.
That’s how I know.
I climb the narrow steps to a lookout balcony overlooking the quarter and see the aftermath below: scorched stone along a warehouse wall, three anchor circles dispersing in coordinated patterns, healers already moving among a small cluster of shaken but standing citizens.
No alarms.
No crowd.
No call for me.
The sight lands somewhere between relief and something sharper.
Obsol
