The morning air held a damp stillness that didn't belong to rain.
It was the kind of damp that clung to old stone — air that had been sitting too long in shadow, holding the weight of walls no one had seen for years.
Kael stood at the basin's edge, arms folded, watching thin lines of light slide slowly across its surface. The water lay perfectly still, refusing even the smallest ripple. The breeze, which had teased at the reed mats earlier, stopped short of crossing the basin's rim. It was as if the place had drawn an invisible boundary and nothing — not wind, not breath — dared pass it.
Behind him, the camp was unnaturally quiet. No clatter of tools, no muffled banter. Oran, who usually started his day by cursing the clay for not shaping itself, was silent. That more than anything made Kael uneasy.
Aila approached from the shelters, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "You've been standing here since before the sky even thought about turning blue," she said softly.
