The city felt heavier than it had yesterday.
Nothing dramatic had exploded.
No armies marched.
No divine decree struck the sky.
But people were slower.
Every step took thinking about.
Every breath felt measured.
Standing upright was suddenly a conscious act.
Aiden noticed it first as a texture in the air. Something pressing just a little too close to the skin, like the city itself was wrapped in damp cloth. Not suffocating—just… insisting.
Seris leaned on a railing, breathing carefully, eyes narrowed as she tried to analyze the unseen.
"Magic flow has shifted again," she muttered. "It doesn't feel blocked. It feels… redirected. As if something out there is collecting what should be returning."
"And people pay for it," Liora said quietly, looking down at streets below where citizens walked like people trying not to notice gravity felt heavier than usual.
Aiden ran a hand through his silver hair absently.
He hated not being able to smile this away. He hated that his instinct to help didn't come with instructions.
He hated the quiet.
Because quiet meant the worst hadn't happened yet.
But it might.
He swallowed.
"Okay," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice, "we do what we can. We help whoever crosses our path. Even a little lift matters if everything feels like it weighs more."
Liora nodded without hesitation.
Seris did too.
Because despite everything, they had become the sort of people who moved toward trouble instead of away.
Even if it hurt.
Even if they weren't ready.
Even if there wasn't a good ending promised anymore.
---
They spent the day holding together things that shouldn't have needed holding:
A merchant collapsing mid-argument. A child falling asleep standing upright. A healer shaking because she could no longer heal without trembling.
Aiden caught people when they slipped. Seris stabilized spells that shouldn't have faltered. Liora spoke softly to those who were afraid and stayed until they could stand again.
It was exhausting.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Because it felt like helping people hold up a wall while the foundation beneath it quietly dissolved.
And the worst part was—
Every person thanked them.
Which meant every person felt it too.
That made it real.
---
Across the rooftops, unseen, unannounced, unnoticed…
Inkaris watched.
Not looming. Not intervening. Not interfering.
Observing.
He watched the way Aiden automatically steadied people without thinking, as if he had been built to do so.
He watched Liora push herself a step farther than was comfortable, because compassion didn't ask her permission, it simply expected.
He watched Seris, analytical and fierce, trying to solve something that refused to be logical.
He admired them.
And worried.
He did not look away even once.
Demons did not pray.
But if one ever could, it might look like the way he watched them now.
Quiet. Intent. Protective without touching.
Because stepping in too early was sometimes as harmful as never stepping in at all.
And he knew exactly how fragile the difference between "growth" and "irreparable break" could be.
---
Near sundown, the city sagged slightly.
Shops didn't close with routine efficiency. They closed like people deciding they'd had enough for today and didn't want to see what the evening would demand.
Lanterns flickered. Children clung closer. Workplaces dismissed early with excuses no one believed.
Aiden leaned against a wall and finally exhaled.
Seris sat beside him, wiping sweat she didn't remember earning.
Liora didn't sit.
She watched the city.
Her voice trembled just a little.
"…I don't like this silence."
Aiden gently bumped his shoulder against hers.
"Yeah," he whispered. "Me either."
But they were still here.
Still together.
Still standing.
And sometimes that mattered.
Sometimes it was enough.
Sometimes.
Inkaris closed his eyes for a moment and made a decision he did not announce to anyone:
He would wait—
—but only until the precise moment waiting ceased being wisdom and turned into cruelty.
If that moment came, he would move.
And nothing in this city, mortal or divine, would appreciate what that would mean.
---