The horn did not announce itself—it invaded.
It split the world with a sound so ancient it felt less like a signal and more like a wound opening across the night. The canvas walls shivered. The flame in the lamp guttered, spitting shadows that jittered across every surface. Ryon felt it ripple through him, not in his ears but in his blood, as though his bones themselves were struck hollow and rung like bells.
The sound dragged on too long, a mournful, low note that rolled from horizon to horizon, then cut sharply—leaving a silence so vast it seemed louder than the horn itself.
In that silence, he realized three things at once: his breath was shallow and pained; Mira's hands were pinning him firmly against the cot, her palms scorching on his chest; and both Lyria and Elira were staring at him as though he were the last fragment of fire in a dying world.
