The map does not tear.
It blinks.
At first, no one notices.
Not in shrines.
Not in trade halls.
Not in the polished sanctified forums where reality is supposed to arrive already verified.
The change is microscopic.
A single road misaligned by half a stone-width.
A river that bends a fraction sooner than memory insists it should.
A village icon that appears one breath too late after a courier reports arrival.
Too small to name.
Too persistent to ignore.
By dusk, the world begins to feel like it is standing on parchment instead of ground.
Rowan is the first to speak the words aloud.
“The charts are lying.”
He does not sound shocked.
He sounds… tired.
Myra leans over the projection table, narrowing her eyes as layers of sanctified cartography ripple out of sync.
“They’re not
