The first small rift opened in Ash Lane—not violent, not hungry, just… there.
It appeared one morning between two leaning buildings—a thin violet c***k in the air, no wider than a doorway, no deeper than a breath. No Hollow rose from it. No shadows lashed out. It simply hung—quiet, waiting, like a wound that had forgotten how to bleed.
Isla felt it before she saw it. A faint tug behind her sternum—not pain, not hunger, just… memory.
She walked to Ash Lane with Rune and Sylvara. The street was ordinary—vendors setting up stalls, children running between crates, the low thrum of morning life. But the c***k waited at the end of the lane, glowing softly against the basalt wall.
A small crowd had gathered—curious, not afraid. An older man pointed. “It’s not growing.”
A woman with a basket
