The night air was thick, humming like a taut string ready to snap.
Ravik leaned forward slightly, watching Captain Thorne—still stiff-backed and serious despite their low conversation by the courtyard wall. His crew circled close, listening, quiet for once.
Thorne rubbed the bridge of his nose, something clearly gnawing at him.
"I've reported what I can," he said. "But every time I bring it up, I get the same answer—'It's nerves,' or 'You're imagining it.' I'm the only beastkin on the High Priest's guard. The others think I'm just overreacting."
Reva scoffed. "So much for holy insight."
Torric crossed his arms. "What do you think's actually happening?"
"I don't know yet," Thorne said. "But it's spreading. I saw a senior mage trip over his own incantation an hour ago. The priests are twitchy. And the Aetherstones—they're not wrong, but they feel... heavy."
"Felt that too," Fen murmured.
Then they heard it.
Shouts.
Loud. Rushed. From the temple square.
Thorne's ears twitched. He turned sharply, posture shifting into alert mode before anyone else moved.
A guard sprinted toward them, armor clinking. "Captain! It's the High Priest—he's collapsed!"
Thorne's expression froze for half a second.
Then: "Where?"
"The grand altar, sir! Mid-blessing!"
Thorne turned to Ravik, his voice clipped. "This isn't nerves."
Ravik gave a sharp nod.
"Take care of yourselves," Thorne said. "And if this isn't a mistake—don't wait for orders."
Then he was gone, boots pounding as he followed the guard into the heart of the chaos.
The crew stood in stunned silence.
Reva was the first to speak. "That's not good."
"Nope," Nyric muttered. "Definitely not good."
Torric scratched his jaw. "Think this is it?"
Ravik watched the flickering lights over the rooftops—torches moving fast.
"Feels like it," he said quietly. "Feels exactly like it."
Meanwhile…
In the tavern, Cael sat with his drink half-forgotten in front of him. The noise outside had shifted. It wasn't festive anymore—it was loud. Sharp. Panic with no direction.
The tavern door burst open. A man rushed in, face pale. "The Grand High Priest collapsed!" he shouted. "They say half the mages in the temple square started coughing!"
Another voice from outside: "My commander's shaking! He dropped his sword!"
Cael stood, jaw tight.
A young spellblade pushed past him, hands trembling. "It's not just him," he muttered. "Something's wrong with the air."
The tavern girl dropped a tray. No one cared.
Cael stepped out into the street, where the crowd buzzed like a hornet's nest. Knights pushed through. Mages argued. Priests were helping one of their own to a bench, his hands covered in blood from his nose.
Ravik was right.
He looked to the rooftops. Then to the temple gates in the distance.
"I need to find him," Cael muttered to himself.
And then he was moving.
The streets churned with confusion behind him.
But his gut told him this was only the beginning.