War did not arrive with drums.
It came with whispers.
Aria felt it before dawn, before the Citadel stirred, before even the wards finished cycling from night to day. Something pressed against the edge of her awareness, subtle as a held breath.
She sat upright in bed, heart pounding.
Damien moved instantly beside her, already awake, already listening. "You felt it too."
She nodded, fingers curling into the sheets. "They're not attacking," she said slowly. "They're positioning."
The room seemed to tighten around the words.
Outside, the Citadel remained deceptively calm. No alarms. No shouts. Just the low, constant pulse of old magic struggling to maintain control over a world that no longer wished to be controlled.
Damien rose and crossed to the window, gaze sweeping the grounds. "Scouts will be moving," he said. "Messengers. Quiet alliances."
"Fear spreads faster than armies," Aria murmured.
He turned to her then. "So does hope."
