Citadel of Arkenfold — Northern Block of Scribe's Lane.
The stone walls of the old human citadel whispered when the wind blew right.
No one ever listened.
Except Maren.
She crouched beside her bed again that morning, fingers pressed to the crack in the floorboard, heart thumping with the rhythm of something she couldn't explain. Three nights ago, she saw him: the rat with the ink-dark eyes. It hadn't spoken in words, not exactly. But the message… she'd felt it, clear as breath on glass.
"Watch the cracks. They remember things."
"Maren!" her father's voice cut through her thoughts. "You're going to be late for Scriptorium!"
She blinked. "Coming, Papa!"
Still, her fingers lingered by the floorboard. Something was changing. She could smell it — like old paper, damp wood, and… bread?
Not the kind her father made. No, this was different. Wild. Ancient. Forbidden.
---
Beneath the floorboards.
Three shadows moved swiftly through the timber-laced maze that the humans called "the walls."
Slinkpaw, a wiry scout from the Tunnelshade Clan, led the way — his fur patterned with soot and ash. Behind him, twitching nervously, was a soft-footed ratling named Cribb. But the third… the third was the danger.
Elarrow, a deep-furred nobleblood from the Hollowbite lineage — exiled, once, for striking a Highpaw. He had returned with something more than revenge.
"They call her Maren," Elarrow said, pausing to sniff the air where dust danced through a shaft of light.
"You've seen her?" Slinkpaw asked.
Elarrow's whiskers curled into a grin. "She has the gift. The Seers of Dustbarrow spoke of a human girl who could hear the breathing of walls. She knows something."
"But she's… human."
Elarrow's eyes turned cold. "Yes. But she is the key to waking the Pact."
Cribb swallowed. "I thought the Pact was dead."
"It was," Elarrow whispered. "Until they dug it up."
---
Burrowdeep Palace — Chamber of the Crescent Council.
The Queen's throne shimmered with polished spoon-metal and sapphire shards, but her eyes shimmered darker still. Queen Rhess, daughter of the Threadweaver line, wore dignity like a second pelt. Around her, the Crescent Council debated — claws scratching scrolls, tails flicking in agitation.
"The scroll exists," hissed Lord Copperwhisk of Emberhalls. "And it threatens everything. We cannot allow a resurgence of old myths. The humans must not be trusted!"
"Yet neither should we leap into shadows we do not understand," said Mistress Nithra, head of the Glassclaw Scholars. "This could be… real. A bridge."
Queen Rhess raised a paw. Silence fell.
"The pact may be forgotten," she said. "But its scent lingers. We must not burn a bridge without first crossing it."
"But your Majesty," Lord Copperwhisk growled, "Scribetail has vanished. Whispna too. And rumor has it Clawmantle is building up forces near the Narrowburrow border. If he declares the scroll heresy…"
"He won't," she said quietly.
"He might," came a sudden voice from the high columns.
All turned.
Descending like mist was a rat in a robe of red thread. Long and narrow, fur silvered and eyes shadowed.
Lord Virren — the once Keeper of the Southern Seal.
"I suggest we watch not only Clawmantle," Virren said, "but the humans themselves. They stir. The girl… Maren. She is not normal."
Queen Rhess narrowed her gaze. "How do you know her name?"
Virren smiled. "Because the Whispers told me."
---
Back in the Citadel — Scribe's Lane.
Maren sat at the edge of the city's outer wall, her notebook open, pencil tapping absently. Her father was late from the Archive. Again. She didn't mind — it gave her time to listen.
She'd started hearing them more clearly now. Voices.
Not in her ears… but behind them.
Snippets of tales. Rat voices. Scratchy, old and young, frightened and wise.
"…Emberhalls builds… fire tunnels…"
"…Tunnelshade saw her, the girl…"
"…She will wake the sleeping scent…"
Then came a sound that made her drop her pencil.
A laugh.
From the wall.
And with it, a whisper: "They're watching you too, girl."
Maren stood. "Who's there?"
Silence.
Then scratching. A shape darted across the far ledge. She ran to it, and saw—nothing. Just a tail disappearing into the wall.
But beneath where it had stood was a mark. Drawn in charcoal.
A spiral.
One she'd seen before.
In a dream.
---
Meanwhile — Western Human Fortress: The Rotfang Incident
Captain Bren of the human militia stood staring at the wreckage of the grain vault. His men whispered stories of sabotage. Of chewed wires. Of stolen grain that vanished like breath in frost.
But what haunted him most was the symbol scorched onto the wall, above the smashed barrels.
A rat's pawprint.
Too clean. Too deliberate.
And below it, scratched in jagged human script:
"The Pact was never broken. You just forgot."