The wind changed first.
Not in direction.
In weight.
It settled over the mountain like a held breath—thick enough that the crimson banners along the terraces sagged and stilled, their fabric pulled taut as if pressed flat by unseen hands. The faint flutter that usually lived in the air vanished, leaving the cloth hanging rigid and strained.
Leaves along the outer paths rustled once.
Just once.
Then stopped.
Silence followed—but not the empty kind.
Something hummed beneath it.
Stone beneath bare feet trembled faintly. Not enough to stagger anyone, not enough to alarm—but enough that a few disciples paused mid-step, brows knitting as they glanced down, uncertain of what they had felt.
Along the terraces, the ancient formation lines responded.
Not brightly.
Not violently.
A single pulse of dim light crawled through the grooves etched into the mountain's skin, tracing paths that had not been touched in generations before sinking back into dormancy.
