The first warning was so small that, for a moment, Ren thought it might simply be fatigue.
A faint tremor moved through the floor of the study, no louder than the passing of a heavy cart on the road outside, and yet Fang's head lifted at once. His gaze sharpened, his expression going still in that particular way Ren had learnt to trust more than any alarm. The room itself seemed unchanged, the morning sunlight still pooled in pale gold across the carpet and desk, the books on the shelves undisturbed, the curtains breathing softly with the draft from the open window.
Fang set down the ledger he had been reading.
"Did you feel that?" he asked quietly.
Ren did not answer immediately. He rose from his chair and laid two fingers against the edge of the desk, then against the wooden shelf, then against the stone of the wall. There it was again, a pulse just under the surface, not physical exactly, but close enough to make the teeth ache if one paid too much attention to it.
