The silence the drone left behind was a new kind of noise. It was the echo of a violation, a psychic stain on the clearing's sanctity. The Waystone's hum remained, a steady, comforting bass note, but it now felt like it was playing in a room where the walls had ears. They were no longer alone in their practice. Every attempt to harmonize, every fumbling note, felt like it was being performed for a hidden, critical audience.
Mara paced the perimeter like a caged animal, her boots scuffing the luminous moss. "They're cataloging us. Building a profile. My old unit had a saying: 'Know a man's tune, you know how to break his rhythm.' That's what they're doing."
