THE NEXT MORNING
ISABELLA'S POINT OF VIEW:
There was something about the air before a system event that always set my skin crawling. A thickness. Like the world was holding its breath. Birds stopped singing. Wind forgot to blow. Even my thoughts felt like they walked on tiptoe.
I sat on a smooth boulder near the camp's edge, fingers curled loosely around the old silver token Michael had given me. It had no magic, not really, but the surface was worn down from worry. My worry. Every system task took something. Every one of us felt it fragmented paths, tangled bonds, things we were never supposed to remember bleeding through like watercolor on damp parchment. The silence was shattered with a high-pitched ding, and a familiar golden shimmer rippled across the sky like the world's most dramatic pop up ad.
