Kael didn't sleep.
He lay on his back in the dark, eyes open, listening to the low creak of the inn's wooden beams and the distant rush of the river beyond the village. Every sound felt slightly off—too sharp, too close, as if the night had moved a step nearer while he wasn't looking.
The ringing in his ears hadn't stopped since he left the ruin.
It wasn't loud. That was the problem. It sat just beneath his hearing, a thin, persistent pressure, like a note held too long. When he closed his eyes, it grew stronger.
Kael opened them again.
The ceiling swam, just a little.
You pushed too far, he told himself. That's all.
He had felt worse after long days mapping storm-torn cliffs or climbing the old quarry walls. Fatigue he understood. Strain he understood. This felt different—less like exhaustion, more like something still working its way through him.
The map lay folded on the small table beside his bed.
He hadn't been able to leave it in his pack.
Every time he tried, his fingers lingered, reluctant, as if letting go meant missing something important. Eventually, he'd given up and set it where he could see it.
The parchment was still.
Too still.
Kael sat up slowly, waiting for the room to tilt. When it didn't, he exhaled and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards were cold under his bare feet.
He reached for the map.
The moment his fingers touched the edge, the ringing sharpened.
Kael hissed and pulled his hand back.
The sound faded to its usual, dull hum.
"…Great," he muttered.
He wrapped the map in cloth before lifting it again. The fabric dulled the sensation, but didn't erase it completely—like touching warm stone through gloves.
Kael unfolded the parchment.
The basin was still there. The corridor he'd marked remained exactly as he'd drawn it. For a heartbeat, relief washed through him.
Then he noticed the symbol.
It sat near the basin's edge, faint but precise: a narrow spiral intersected by three short lines, each angled differently. The ink was darker than the rest of the map.
Older.
Kael stared at it.
"I didn't draw you," he whispered.
The symbol didn't move. It didn't glow or pulse or hum. It simply existed, stubborn and undeniable.
Kael's stomach tightened.
He searched his memory, running through every mark he'd ever learned—survey notations, guild symbols, old quarry signs. None matched.
The ringing grew louder.
Kael folded the map with care, tied the cloth tight, and forced himself to stand.
Morning, he decided. I need daylight.
---
The village was already awake when he stepped outside.
Mist clung to the riverbanks, curling around the stilts of the lower houses. A pair of fishermen hauled in their nets, muttering to each other as they worked. Somewhere, a child laughed.
It should have been comforting.
Instead, Kael felt like he was walking through a place that didn't quite line up with itself.
Bren spotted him near the well and scowled. "You look like death."
"Then I'm improving," Kael said, attempting a smile.
Bren didn't return it. His gaze flicked to Kael's pack. "You still have it."
"I didn't go back."
"That's not what I meant."
Kael hesitated, then nodded. "The map."
Bren sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "People are talking."
"About what?"
"The basin," Bren said. "About you."
Kael winced. "Already?"
"A place like that doesn't wake up quietly."
They were interrupted by a sharp intake of breath nearby.
An old woman stood a few steps away, staring at Kael's pack as if it had just spoken to her. Her hands trembled around the bucket she was carrying.
"You," she said hoarsely. "You went there."
Kael inclined his head. "Only briefly."
Her gaze sharpened. "Show me."
Bren stiffened. "Maera—"
"Show me," she repeated, her voice brittle.
Kael hesitated, then loosened the cloth around the map just enough to reveal the parchment. He kept his fingers carefully away from the ink.
Maera leaned forward.
Her breath caught.
"That mark," she whispered. "Where did you get that?"
"I don't know," Kael said honestly. "It appeared after I entered the ruin."
Maera staggered back as if struck.
"That's a death-sign," she said.
The words landed heavily.
"A what?" Bren asked.
Maera's eyes never left the map. "We carved it during the flood years. On stones. On doors. Anywhere the ground swallowed people whole."
Kael's pulse quickened. "What does it mean?"
"It means the land gave up," she said. "It means nothing living stayed the same afterward."
Silence spread around them. A few villagers had drawn closer, murmuring softly.
Kael folded the map again, his hands unsteady. "The ruin isn't flooding anything," he said. "It didn't attack. It reacted."
Maera shook her head. "That's worse."
"Why?"
"Because it's choosing."
The ringing in Kael's ears spiked violently.
He stumbled, catching himself on the well's edge as his vision darkened.
Bren grabbed his arm. "Kael!"
"I'm fine," Kael lied. His heart hammered, each beat echoing faintly, out of sync with the world around him.
Maera took a step back. "You listened," she said, her voice trembling. "And now it's listening back."
A shout cut through the tension.
From the edge of the village, a hunter came running, face pale. "There's something in the treeline," he gasped. "Big. Wrong."
Kael's blood ran cold.
"Beasts don't come this close," Bren said.
The hunter swallowed. "This one did."
Kael closed his eyes briefly.
The ringing in his ears shifted—changed pitch, like a note sliding out of tune.
When he opened them, he knew.
"It followed," he said quietly.
Bren stared at him. "What did?"
Kael tightened the straps on his pack. "The answer."
And somewhere beyond the mist, something moved that had no reason to be there at all.