The square never fully recovered.
By midmorning, the villagers had swept away broken wood and scorched cloth, but the stone beneath their feet told a different story. Hairline fractures spread like frozen lightning from the butcher's table, faint yet unmistakable. No matter how much dust was brushed away, the scars remained.
Kael noticed people stepping around them.
Not carefully—instinctively.
As if the ground itself had learned a new language and the village was already responding.
He stood near the edge of the square, map folded and tucked beneath his arm, watching the quiet arguments form in small clusters. Voices rose and fell. Hands gestured sharply. Names were spoken in tones that made his shoulders tense.
This time, no one pretended the problem would fade.
Maera was the first to speak openly.
"We cannot stay," she said, her voice cutting cleanly through the murmurs. "The land has marked us."
Bren rubbed his temples. "Marked doesn't mean condemned."
"You saw what happened when we tried to burn it," Maera snapped. "That wasn't defense. That was warning."
Others nodded.
A fisherman stepped forward. "My nets came up twisted this morning. Not torn. Twisted. Like something pulled at them from below."
A woman near the well added, "My youngest wouldn't stop crying last night. Said the floor was humming."
Kael closed his eyes briefly.
It's spreading, he thought. Not outward—downward.
Senna leaned against a post nearby, arms crossed, her presence a quiet line drawn between the factions forming in the square. She wasn't intervening. Not yet.
Good.
This wasn't a fight that could be solved with steel.
Bren raised his voice. "We've faced worse."
"And survived because we left when it was time," Maera shot back. "You remember the old river bend. You remember the sinkholes."
The air tightened.
Someone said Kael's name.
He looked up.
All eyes turned to him—not accusing, not pleading.
Evaluating.
"If we leave," Bren said carefully, "does it follow?"
Kael hesitated.
"I don't know," he admitted.
That was enough to tip the balance.
Fear didn't need certainty. It only needed possibility.
Maera nodded sharply. "Then we prepare to move."
Voices rose again—this time louder, fractured. Some argued to stay. Others demanded immediate action. A few glanced toward Kael with something like resentment, quickly hidden.
Senna pushed off the post and stepped closer to him.
"This is the part where communities crack," she murmured. "Not from danger. From decisions."
Kael swallowed. "I never wanted—"
"I know," she said. "That doesn't stop consequences."
He looked down at the map.
The symbol hadn't changed again. Not yet.
But the parchment felt… restless.
Not vibrating. Not warm.
Expectant.
Kael adjusted his grip.
Something small shifted inside his pack.
He froze.
"Did you feel that?" he asked.
Senna frowned. "Feel what?"
He hesitated, then slowly reached into the side pocket of his pack and withdrew a small, unremarkable object—a metal disc no wider than his palm, tarnished and plain. He'd bought it weeks ago from a traveling trader for a handful of coins, thinking it might once have been part of a navigation tool or measuring device.
He'd forgotten about it entirely.
Now, as he held it up, the disc trembled faintly in his hand.
Not toward the map.
Away from it.
Senna's eyes sharpened. "What is that?"
"I don't know," Kael said honestly. "It's just scrap. Or it was."
The disc rotated slightly on its own, tilting toward the edge of the village—toward the hills beyond the river. Its movement was subtle enough that anyone not watching closely might miss it.
But Kael saw.
And so did Senna.
"That's not reacting to power," she said slowly. "It's reacting to stress."
Kael's breath caught.
Structural stress, he realized. Not resonance output—strain.
He lowered the disc. The trembling lessened, but didn't stop.
A shout interrupted them.
From the far side of the square, a stranger stood near the treeline.
No one had seen him arrive.
He wore a long coat dusted with travel grime, hood lowered to reveal a weathered face and eyes that moved too deliberately—cataloging, measuring. A pack hung at his side, heavy with something solid.
"I don't mean to intrude," the man called, his voice smooth. "But I couldn't help noticing the ground's been restless."
The square fell silent.
Senna's posture shifted instantly.
Kael felt the ringing in his ears tighten.
Bren stepped forward cautiously. "This is a private village."
The man smiled. "Of course. My apologies."
He took a few steps closer—slow, unthreatening. "Name's Junr. Merchant, mostly. News when it's worth trading."
Maera frowned. "We didn't hear anyone approach."
Junr chuckled lightly. "Travel teaches quiet."
His gaze flicked briefly—to Kael's pack.
Just a glance.
But Kael felt it like a tug.
Junr's smile widened a fraction. "I heard rumors further downriver. About a basin that woke up."
The murmurs returned, sharper now.
"Rumors travel fast," Bren said tightly.
"They do," Junr agreed. "Especially when the land starts changing its mind."
Kael tightened his grip on the metal disc. It vibrated again—harder this time.
Away from Junr.
Senna noticed.
She stepped half a pace forward, blade still sheathed but her presence unmistakable. "You picked a bad time to wander in."
Junr raised his hands placatingly. "I don't doubt it. I'm not here to interfere. Only to observe."
His eyes met Kael's.
And lingered.
"You're the mapmaker," Junr said. Not a question.
Kael's pulse quickened. "Who's asking?"
Junr inclined his head. "Someone who's seen places like this before. Places that don't like being forgotten."
A chill ran through the square.
"I won't stay long," Junr continued easily. "But I will say this—burning records rarely solves structural problems."
Kael felt a sharp twist in his gut.
Junr took a step back, already retreating. "If you plan to leave, I'd suggest doing so before the land finishes deciding what you are to it."
With that, he turned and walked toward the treeline.
No one stopped him.
Only after he vanished did the village breathe again.
Senna exhaled slowly. "That wasn't a drifter."
"No," Kael agreed.
He looked down at the trembling disc in his hand.
It had stopped moving.
Not because the pressure was gone.
But because it had found a direction.
The village fractured behind him—arguments resuming, fear hardening into resolve—but Kael barely heard them.
His attention was fixed on the object he'd nearly forgotten.
On the way it had reacted—not to power, not to memory, but to strain in the world itself.
Somewhere beyond the river, beyond the hills, something was pulling at the fabric of the land.
And for the first time since the ruin answered him, Kael felt a different kind of certainty.
Not about control.
About responsibility.