The days following the storm were spent in assessment and repair. The valley was littered with broken branches and shredded leaves, a testament to the sky's violence. Yet, at its center, The Wellspring stood. The longhouse was secure. The granary, though its roof was a map of dents and bruises, was whole. Their food was safe. A quiet, profound pride settled over the community. They had not just survived; they had, in their own way, prevailed. The partnership between stone and song had been tested against the raw fury of nature and had held firm.
But the storm's true legacy was not in the visible damage. It was in the silence.
It was Hemmings, the half-deaf miner, who noticed it first. He was taking his morning walk around the settlement's perimeter, his bare feet feeling the earth for tremors and shifts, as was his habit. He stopped by the crystal cavern's entrance, as he often did, to feel the familiar, comforting hum through the soles of his feet.
He felt nothing.
