The sky was pale when Kael awoke.
Not the pale of fear. The pale of a world still learning to wake without commands.
He sat up slowly, feeling the soft grass beneath him shift with his weight. Around him, the village breathed—quietly, freely. No alerts. No loops.
Just breath.
Children's laughter echoed somewhere beyond the trees, uneven and real. Kael smiled, rising to his feet. His hand instinctively brushed the old mark on his palm—the spiral was gone. Faded like a dream that left behind meaning, not detail.
Aila sat near the stream, weaving long blades of grass into something loose and formless.
He walked over, barefoot, feeling the earth with every step.
"You're up early," he said.
Aila glanced up, her fingers pausing. "Couldn't sleep. They found another mark."
Kael frowned. "Who?"
She nodded toward the trees. "The new ones. The kids. By the ridge."
Kael crouched beside her. "Another handprint?"
"No. Different. Not ours. Not hers." Her eyes met his. "It's older."
