The ground does not scream when Heaven grips it.
It locks.
At dawn, the first anchors fall.
Not from the sky.
Not from corridors.
From definition.
Across three compliance zones and one disputed borderland, reality stiffens as if the land has been told a single, unforgiving sentence and forced to obey it. Rivers straighten into sanctioned angles. Hills flatten by decree. Streets snap back into the shapes they were promised would never change.
People feel it in their bones before they see it.
A headache that arrives without pain.
A pressure behind the eyes like the moment before a name returns.
A sense that the ground has decided what it is allowed to be—and will not entertain discussion.
Rowan’s voice breaks across the network. “They’re deploying locational anchors.”
Kael’s jaw
