Caria let out a slow breath. "They're spreading it," she said. "Not the place. The posture."
"Yes," Rhys replied. "That was inevitable once the first refusal held."
Puddle drifted closer, its glow steady but thoughtful. Through the bond, Rhys felt a quiet convergence—not of events, but of people arriving at similar hesitations from different directions.
Understanding was no longer centralized.
That was the real danger.
And the real hope.
Far to the east, the Rotten-Heart stood at a crossroads where three paths met and no signposts remained. They listened—to wind, to memory, to the uneven beat in their chest.
Then they chose the path that curved.
Not because it was safer.
Because it was not straight.
Behind them, the world did not settle.
It adjusted.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
Irreversibly.
History had learned how to breathe.
Now it was learning how to speak—through many mouths, in many tones, none of them final.
