The iron spires groaned, a sound like a choir of rusted gods. As the caravan moved deeper into the grid, the sky transformed. The dark violet arc connecting the monoliths began to bleed into the surrounding grey, creating a shimmering ceiling of artificial aurora. It was beautiful, but the air felt thin and sharp, like breathing pulverized glass.
"Master Eren," Reiner whispered from the back of the wagon, his small hands clutching the wooden frame. "The sky... it's singing."
Eren didn't look back. The obsidian veins in his neck were pulsing in perfect synchronization with the spires. Every mile they covered was a physical tax on his soul; he wasn't just leading the caravan; he was tethering the very ground they stood on to the Root Tone in his chest.
"It's not singing, Reiner," Eren said, his voice carrying the heavy, metallic resonance of the Spires. "It's crying. We're holding up the roof of the world, and it's heavy."
