(Almera POV)
I woke before dawn, not because of sound—but because of weight.
The oasis beyond the lattice windows was still dark, the water channels quiet except for the low murmur of flow beneath stone. Normally, that sound soothed me. It reminded me that even in the desert, life persisted through patience.
Today, it felt too loud.
I lay still, staring at the canopy above my bed, my fingers pressed lightly against my chest as if to calm something unsettled beneath my ribs. There was no pain. No fever. No lingering weakness from the poison that once tried to claim me.
And yet, something pressed inward.
Not a vision.
Not yet.
It was the feeling I had come to recognize—the moment before prophecy surfaced. Like the air before a sandstorm, heavy and charged, even while the sky remained clear.
It's different, I thought.
Before, my dreams came like warnings. Sharp. Urgent. Images that demanded action. Lately, they no longer arrived whole. They hovered. They waited.
They watched.
