The air changed before the figure appeared. It was a subtle thing, easy to miss—a sudden absence of sound that went beyond mere quiet. The wind that had been howling through the shattered platform ceased not gradually but instantly, as if someone had drawn a curtain between one moment and the next. The distant rumble of Dante's lingering storm fell silent. Even the crackle of electricity around his fingers and the soft whisper of flames that clung to Selena's skin seemed to retreat into themselves, muted by something that pressed against reality like a hand over a mouth.
Selena felt it first in her brands, in the scars that marked her chest with their oath-fire. They flickered, dimmed, as if struggling against some force that sought to smother them. She gripped Dante's arm, her fingers tightening in warning, and he nodded—he felt it too. Something was coming, something that moved through the silence like a shark through dark water.
