The Eleven stood beneath the Cradle.
It was not a place they often gathered—not in such number, not in such silence.
But something had shifted. A tension not born of war or prophecy… but of *instinct*.
The Cradle pulsed above them. Once calm and rhythmic, now its light stuttered—flickering in uneven waves, as if something inside was trying to breathe.
"Has it ever done this before?" Aurevyn asked, eyes locked on the trembling sphere.
"Never," Elanora whispered. "Not in all my centuries."
"It pulses like a heartbeat," Thamior murmured, planting his hand to the ground. "But it's not ours."
Vaelyra's hand hovered near her blade. She wasn't sure why.
"It's not just the Cradle," Caerthys said. "It's the Flow. The undercurrent of all things—it's… refracting."
Kaelen stepped forward, Chaos gently trailing his shoulders like a cape of smoke. "Something is pressing against the veil. Not to enter, but to observe."
"The High Gods?" Sylvaris asked. His voice was barely above wind.
Myrielle tilted her head. "Or something even they don't command."
The Eleven fell silent again, and the Cradle *screamed*.
A soundless wave of pressure rippled through the sky, shaking the mountain beneath their feet. Birds did not flee. There were no birds. No wind. No breath.
Only a stillness that warned: *You are being watched.*
Then Vaelyra dropped to one knee.
Her eyes wide. Glowing. Seeing—but not here.
"She's having a vision," Elanora cried, catching her.
In her mind, Vaelyra saw a world made of mirrors—all broken. She saw stars falling not from battle, but from *choice*. And she saw herself, wrapped in flame, striking down a figure of golden light with no face.
"It's coming," she whispered. "I don't know what it is… but it's already coming."
A single pulse echoed from the Cradle.
And then, for the first time in its existence—it went still.
And silence had never felt so loud.