Heaven does not realize it is lost at first.
It only realizes that the answers arrive late.
The delay is small.
Barely measurable.
A fraction of a breath between query and reply inside the divine lattice.
But for the first time since the sanctified corridors were carved into the world, Heaven asks a question and does not instantly know where to look.
Divine cartographers push fresh sigils into the scry-net. Coordinates are recalculated. Probabilities tighten. Search spirals bloom across the folded geography in perfect, ruthless patterns.
And each one opens onto nothing.
Not void.
Not obstruction.
Just… outdated truth.
“Search nodes failing to converge,” Rowan mutters in disbelief as the projections jitter across Blackthorne’s war table. “They keep locking onto places that were c
