The violation was profound. It was not a wound to the body or a theft of treasure, but a burglary of the soul. In the days after Philomela's departure, a pall settled over Aethelburg. The vibrant songs continued, but they were now sung with a self-consciousness that was entirely new. Every burst of laughter felt like it was being logged in some distant ledger. Every moment of quiet contentment felt like a data point for the enemy.
The city's joy had been turned into a commodity, and the people felt the strange, psychic weight of that transaction. They were no longer simply living their lives; they were performing them for an unseen audience of analysts in Silverport.
Elara felt it most acutely. The Shard pulsed with a low, protective thrum, but it could not erase the sense of exposure. Philomela's gentle, probing questions now felt like surgical incisions. Her beautiful charts and graphs, once a source of fascination, were now seen for what they were: blueprints for theft.
