The wards didn't fail.
They adapted.
Aria felt it as the first wave of pressure rolled across the Sovereign Hold, a slow, deliberate push that tested rather than struck. The ancient defenses responded not with brute force, but recalibration, shifting frequencies, tightening seams that had not been stressed in centuries.
Someone out there was learning.
And learning fast.
Damien stood at the central dais of the ward chamber, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the floating sigils that pulsed in measured patterns above the stone floor. Around him, commanders and wardens moved with controlled urgency, voices low, precise.
"This isn't an attack," Elias said, studying the readings. "Not yet."
"No," Damien agreed. "It's a conversation."
Aria stepped forward, bare feet silent against the cold stone. She hadn't bothered with boots. She needed to feel the ground. The Hold. The lines beneath it.
The storm outside growled, thunder rolling like a distant warning.
