The moment Alys stepped back inside the citadel, the halls felt different—too alert, too watchful, as though the stones themselves had learned to listen. Torches fluttered in their sconces in thin, frantic flames, reacting not to a draft, but to the slow, spiraling tension threading through the fortress like a warning.
Kestren walked beside her with long, measured strides, every inch of him taut with unspoken urgency. The echo of their footsteps traveled ahead of them before dying abruptly, swallowed by the static in the air.
Alys broke the silence first. "How long until the wards weaken again?"
He did not answer right away. His jaw tightened, and the faintest flicker of power shimmered along his palm—unintentional, instinctive.
"A few hours," he finally said. "Maybe less. The pulses are getting closer together. Whatever pushes from the other side is growing impatient."
Alys exhaled sharply. "You think it's testing the timing."
