Lindarion felt it before it manifested, a subtle pressure that did not press on the body or even the weave, but on sequence. The sense that something had been rearranged while no one was looking, not erased, not destroyed, but slid sideways into a position where it now meant something different.
He stopped walking.
Nysha nearly ran into him. "What—"
"Don't move," Lindarion said quietly.
Ashwing froze mid-air, wings humming. "I hate that tone."
The land around them looked unchanged. The plateau still stretched ahead in pale stone and fractured ridges. The sky still carried its wrongness in muted layers. But Lindarion could feel a mismatch between cause and effect, like footsteps echoing before they landed.
'He didn't add pressure,' Lindarion realized. 'He changed relevance.'
The former architect tilted its head, posture tightening. "A narrative displacement is forming," it said. "Localized but deep."
Nysha frowned. "Translate."
