The first sign was the birds.
Aria noticed their absence one morning when the forest felt too quiet—no chatter from the finches that usually argued over seeds near the stream, no sharp cry of the hawk that nested on the western cliff. Even the insects seemed subdued, their hum reduced to a nervous whisper.
She paused mid-step, a bundle of bitterroot cradled in her arms.
“Lyr,” she murmured, “do you hear that?”
Lyr, crouched near the fire pit and coaxing flame from damp wood with stubborn determination, frowned. “Hear what?”
“Exactly.”
He straightened slowly, eyes scanning the canopy. A squirrel darted across a branch overhead, frantic, tail puffed, then vanished deeper into the trees.
“Well,” he said lightly, “either the forest has decided we’re terrible company, or something ugly i
