Mars did not scream.
It did not shake.
It did not warn anyone.
It only changed its breathing.
At first, no one noticed.
The clouds above the red cities stopped drifting forward. They slowed, then curved gently, forming wide circles in the sky. They did not travel with the wind anymore. They rotated, slowly, patiently, as if guarding something unseen.
The wind followed.
It paused.
Not faded.
Paused.
Dust hung in the air, frozen in place. Flags stopped fluttering. Hair settled against faces. The world held still for a heartbeat that lasted too long.
Then the air moved again.
But it did not move straight.
The wind began to curl around streets, wrapping itself around towers and bridges, tracing invisible paths. Fine red dust lifted from the ground and spun in careful spirals, rising and falling like something breathing.
Shadows arrived late.
A man stepped forward in the marketplace.
His shadow followed him half a second later.
A woman raised her arm to shield her eyes from the sun.
Her shadow rose slowly, as if unsure it should obey.
People noticed.
No one spoke.
Sound felt… delayed.
A hammer struck metal in a workshop, but the clang arrived dull and stretched, as if passing through water. Footsteps echoed too long. Voices sounded distant even when spoken close.
Mars was listening.
In the market district, life slowed without command.
Merchants stopped calling out prices. A spice seller froze with his hand inside a sack, fingers buried in powder. A fruit vendor held an apple mid-air, then slowly lowered it back onto the table without knowing why.
Tools vibrated softly on stone counters.
Not shaking.
Not falling.
Just humming.
Flying creatures above the city screamed—not in fear, but confusion. They did not flee outward. They spiraled upward instead, wings beating harder as their circles tightened. Some collided mid-air and fell. Others vanished into the dust clouds above.
Children began to cry.
Not loudly.
Not because of pain.
They cried the way children cry when something feels wrong but cannot be named. Mothers checked their bodies, brushed dust from their hair, whispered comfort.
Nothing worked.
Soldiers along the outer roads shifted their stance. Hands tightened around weapons. No alarms sounded. No orders were given.
Still, their bodies reacted.
Old men paused mid-step. Some touched the ground with trembling fingers. Others stared into the distance with hollow eyes, remembering disasters they could no longer describe.
Someone whispered, barely audible:
"This shouldn't be happening again…"
No one asked what again meant.
Far from the cities, the Crocodile River stretched wide and dark.
Thousands of crocodiles rested along its banks and beneath its surface. Normally, the river was calm. Heavy. Patient.
The water rippled.
There was no wind.
Perfect circles spread across the surface, slow and deep, like a pulse traveling outward. One by one, crocodile heads lifted from the water.
All at once.
Yellow eyes stared upward.
The river went silent.
Then one crocodile moved.
It launched itself from the water with impossible strength, crossing the entire width of the river in a single leap. It landed on the opposite bank with a violent crash, claws tearing stone.
The other crocodiles did not follow.
They froze.
Mouths slightly open.
Bodies rigid.
The river stopped breathing.
Near the river stood a small ancient structure.
Not large.
Not grand.
Old stone darkened by time. Symbols carved so deeply they looked melted rather than cut. The land bent subtly around this place, as if avoiding it.
Inside, Mother Selvara stood alone.
She was old, but her spine was straight. Her face was calm in the way only those who had survived centuries could manage—smooth on the surface, heavy beneath.
Ancient scars crossed her arms and neck. Not wounds. Marks. Promises carved into flesh long ago.
Her staff rested beside her.
It began to hum.
Floating metal rings above the floor tilted unevenly. Symbols etched into the walls glowed faintly, then faded. Fine red dust suspended in the air stopped moving.
It froze.
Mother Selvara felt it before she understood it.
Her heartbeat changed.
Mars pressed against her awareness—not with words, but emotion. Pressure behind the eyes. Weight in the chest. The feeling of something entering a place it should not.
She placed her palm against the stone floor.
It was warm.
Too warm.
Outside, the sky darkened slightly—not with clouds, but depth. As if something vast had passed between Mars and the sun.
Mother Selvara closed her eyes.
She listened.
Magic did not speak in sound. It spoke in resistance. In flow. In places where reality bent or refused to bend.
Her staff vibrated harder.
For the first time in many years, her breath trembled.
She whispered ancient names.
Not prayers.
Not spells.
Names older than meaning.
The floating rings shook.
One fell to the floor with a dull sound.
The dust in the air shattered and dropped like dead ash.
Mother Selvara opened her eyes.
She felt it clearly now.
Two heartbeats.
One steady.
One familiar.
The other—
Wrong.
Not evil.
Not violent.
Just… incompatible.
It did not match Mars' rhythm. It did not echo the planet's pulse. It felt like a note played in the wrong universe.
Her calm cracked.
Only slightly.
She whispered to the empty room, to the planet beneath her feet, to the sky that refused to answer.
"Something has crossed."
The crocodiles outside did not move.
The river did not flow.
Mars held its breath.
And somewhere far above the red sky, something ancient moved closer—
while the planet below prepared to suffer.
End of Chapter 1