The attention of ancient things is never loud.
It does not announce itself with thunder or flame. It arrives as pressure—subtle, accumulating, undeniable. As West absorbed the sigil and the Unmarked Cradle fell silent once more, the world seemed to lean inward, as if listening to the consequences of its own survival.
They remained within the hollow longer than any of them intended.
No one spoke at first. Words felt insufficient in a place that predated language, where even thought had once struggled to define itself. The stone beneath their feet was warmer now—not with heat, but with continuity, as though the world had decided, begrudgingly, to keep going.
West finally broke the silence.
"I can still feel it," he said quietly.
East turned toward him at once. "The sigil?"
West nodded. "But not like before. It's not trying to overwrite anything. It's… integrated. Like a rule that finally remembered why it existed."
