Lindarion's eyes slowly lifted toward the fissure.
It widened—
a hair's breadth—
as if smiling.
The fissure widened—
only slightly,
but enough that the air screamed.
Not aloud.
Not in sound.
But in pressure—a ringing vibration felt in bone, like a bowstring pulled too far.
Ashwing scrambled behind Lindarion's shoulder. "No. Nope. I don't like that. I don't like ANYTHING that smiles without a mouth."
Nysha didn't answer.
Her jaw was clenched; her hand hovered above her blade, not drawn, not sheathed, as if the weapon itself couldn't decide whether drawing it was bravery or suicide.
Lindarion took one step forward.
The fissure responded immediately—
its edges twisting,
fraying like torn silk
woven with gold and violet threads.
The voice came again.
Not from the desert.
Not from the fissure.
Inside their heads.
"You're late, Eldorath's child."
Nysha's breath hitched. "That's—no. That's too clear. Voices that clear don't come from fractures. They come from—"
