It started as a whisper in the blood.
The Spiral Looms trembled on a windless morning. The thread-trees swayed without breeze. Children paused mid-laughter. The Choir fell silent without warning. Even the sky, vast and ever-peaceful above Seryth, bore a strange red haze on the horizon.
Kaelin stood at the eastern edge of the city, her fingers curled around the hilt of her blade—not because she meant to use it, but because something in her bones told her she might have to.
Theron joined her, silent and watchful.
“The moon rose crimson last night,” he said.
Kaelin nodded. “And the Veil pulsed three times before dawn. Not from within. From without.”
Sahlra arrived soon after, her expression unreadable.
“They’ve come from the Blood Crescent,” she said. “A realm lost long ago. One where
