The sun didn't rise over Throatglass.
It cracked.
A small shatter of light broke the sky in veins, painting the spires in gold. Cyril had never seen a sunrise look so much like a wound. He and Miren packed up quickly, keeping low among broken statues. The wind had a direction now, whispering northeast.
They didn't follow it.
They cut west. Into a caravan trail swallowed by thorns.
For hours, they walked in silence—Miren leading, Cyril slightly behind. The Flow around them was jittery, unsettled. Like it wasn't finished reacting to whatever fell from the sky.
Cyril tried not to look back. But he felt it. A pressure behind his ribs. A pull, soft and constant, like something was calling him forward—homeward—but through someone else's mouth.
He didn't tell Miren.
Not yet.
She didn't speak until the sun hit high noon and the first signs of pursuit arrived.
Not seen.
Just felt.
"You hear that?" she asked, already drawing her blade.
Cyril strained his ears.
Silence.
Way too much silence.
The birds were gone. The insects. Even the faint shimmer of Flow against stone had quieted.
"Something's caging the ambient," Miren murmured.
"Drawing it in. Anchors maybe. Maybe worse."
Then came the sound.
A whistle. Short. Repeating.
Miren's eyes narrowed.
"Hunting signals."
Cyril's blood chilled.
"For us?"
"Not just us. Anyone running from the ruins. They're flushing the region."
Cyril looked northeast. He didn't want to. It just happened.
"That may be our only way to go."
Miren followed his gaze and spat.
"Caught in a net and our only place to go is the deadliest place on the continent right now, how fitting."
Cyril's mouth went dry.
"We don't have a choice, all we can do is make the most out of this misfortune."
Miren didn't respond right away, feigning silence.
"No. We run against it, we hit lines. Traps. Maybe even Crown-tier elites. If they're involved…"
A pause. Something in her posture suddenly changed.
She looked at him like she hadn't in a while.
"You're too new. You'd die fast."
He swallowed.
"But if we go northeast…"
Her voice dropped lower.
"We disappear in the chaos. Small fish. Wrong map."
Cyril grimaced.
"So we'd be using the madness as cover."
Miren nodded.
"We won't be the only ones. Half the continent's going to try. The other half will try to stop them."
They stood in a dry gully flanked by shale and memory. Flow above them, still unsettling.
Cyril exhaled slowly.
"So now we're chasing the very thing you said we shouldn't."
Miren gave him a look that wasn't quite regret.
"We're not chasing it," she said.
"We're being funneled."
***
Later that night…
They made camp in the ribs of a collapsed beast, it's marrow humming faintly even after death.
Cyril couldn't sleep again. Not from fear. From awareness.
His body hummed. The Flow in his veins felt like it wanted something. Wanted out. Wanted to answer a call he didn't choose to hear.
He rubbed his arms. They sparked faintly when he touched skin. The Flow responded too fast now—preemptive, like a second nervous system overriding the first.
Miren noticed.
"You're vibrating."
"It's not like I want to," he muttered.
She eyed him warily, then passed him a pulse-calming root to chew.
"If you can't mask your presence better, they'll find us long before we reach the outer territories."
Cyril nodded. But inside, the buzzing didn't stop.
Somewhere in the distance, a shard of heaven had fallen. It didn't belong here.
But something inside him already did.
***
Meanwhile, in a high sky fortress, far above:
A dozen masked figures watched the world through scrying pools of liquid. Most murmured predictions. Others argued.
Only one was silent.
The Elder's voice broke the tension like cracked stone.
"It landed."
A nod.
"And the pull begins."
Another voice, thin and dry: "Do we know who it's for?"
Silence.
Then:
"Not yet."
The Elder's hands folded behind his back.
"But we will."