The pulse was faint—but steady. It didn't crack the air or demand attention, but it wasn't something you could ignore either.
It sat beneath everything, like the low hum you only notice once the room goes quiet, like a bell that had been struck deep underground long ago and was still echoing through the stone.
Deacon didn't flinch when it reached him. He watched the mirror as the feeling settled into the glass—familiar, rhythmic, unmistakably alive.
Something important had moved—something tied to the thread.
"Likely the thread," he said, voice even. "Confirm it. Don't engage. Just observe. Record every shift, every fluctuation. He wants answers. Not blood… for now."
The mirror didn't flash or hiss. It didn't react like a tool—it responded like something alive. It dimmed gently, like a light remembering it didn't belong, like cold drifting into a warm room, waiting to be noticed but not demanding it.
