It didn't happen all at once.
That was the problem.
People could handle chaos if it came loud enough. If something exploded, if monsters roared, if a villain announced their presence with theatrical flair… that was something the mind could wrap itself around.
But this?
This crept.
Shops opened slower. Voices carried softer. Laughter happened… but with effort, like it had to fight its way through something heavy before escaping mouths.
And the sky looked wrong.
Not visibly. Not magically.
Just wrong in the quiet way a room feels after someone whispers something that shouldn't have been said.
Children played less. Old men sat down more. Mothers held their kids even when they didn't know why.
Someone sneezed and didn't stop coughing for longer than they should've. A craftsman's steady hands trembled mid-measure. A mage cast a simple levitation spell and needed to sit down afterward.
It wasn't disaster.
It was erosion.
And erosions didn't scream.
They swallowed.
---
Aiden noticed because he watched people now the way a doctor listens to breathing.
Seris noticed because her magic felt heavier—like moving through thick water instead of air.
Liora noticed because the city sounded wrong. Streets had rhythms. This one changed tempo without warning, stumbling like a song sung by someone trying not to cry.
This wasn't just exhaustion.
This was the universe quietly charging interest.
---
Meanwhile, across polished marble floors and silk curtains that fluttered just a bit too dramatically in the breeze, Varros lounged in comfortable sin.
The chair cost more than most families made in three years. He used it like it was a stool.
A glass of expensive wine rested lazily between his fingers, not because he needed it, but because it completed the aesthetic.
Reports lay across his desk.
He didn't read them.
He absently flipped one shut with a flick of his wrist, smiling in that way that sat somewhere between charming and insulting.
"So," he murmured to no one, "the city is wilting."
He swirled the glass thoughtfully.
"This is inconvenient."
A beat.
"…but also interesting."
He leaned back, head tilting slightly as if listening to a distant orchestra.
"They push faith too hard… the people break.
They pull faith too hard… the people break differently."
He gave a small laugh.
"Marvelous symmetry."
He wasn't heartless. Just… pragmatic.
He liked cities strong. Strong things were useful. Strong things made better tools, better allies, better enemies. Strong things resisted just enough to make victory meaningful when he finally claimed it.
This?
This might break the toy before he got to enjoy it.
That annoyed him.
But watching the other players panic?
That was delicious.
---
The city council argued more now.
Quietly at first. Then with raised voices. Then with panic just barely failing to hide behind politics.
Word spread fast.
Not rumors—patterns.
Healers who couldn't keep up. Priests getting tired praying. Merchants noticing people buying less because walking farther suddenly felt like effort. Guards having to take breaks sooner.
Someone tried to blame the weather.
Someone else tried to blame a curse.
Someone blamed taxes, because someone always blamed taxes.
Someone whispered about punishment.
Someone whispered about faith.
Someone whispered the word wishes and got laughed at.
Mostly.
Not entirely.
---
Aiden helped where he could.
Sometimes it was magic. Sometimes it was just being there. Sometimes it was a smile he wasn't fully feeling yet but gave anyway because people needed to see it.
Sometimes people cried when he helped and he didn't know what to do, so he just held them until it stopped hurting enough to breathe again.
Seris didn't leave his side.
She didn't hover. She didn't smother.
She just stayed.
Liora worked until her hands shook and then worked more because stopping meant remembering and remembering hurt.
And the city?
The city began to notice.
Not consciously. Not in words.
In looks exchanged too long between strangers. In doors closing earlier. In candles burning longer at night. In prayers whispered not because people believed—but because desperation sometimes sounded like faith if you didn't think too hard.
---
And far above the streets and distress…
Varros sighed.
"Such a pity," he muttered, setting his wine aside.
Then he smiled.
"But opportunity rarely dresses nicely before knocking."
He stood, stretching lazily, adjusting his coat like a man about to attend a pleasant dinner rather than a slowly unfolding spiritual collapse.
If everything continued to tilt…
someone influential would panic.
When influential people panicked, they made mistakes.
Mistakes meant leverage.
And Varros adored leverage.
He stepped to his window, watching the city dim just slightly earlier than it had the week before.
"Do try to hold together just a bit longer," he said to it softly, voice lightly amused. "It would be terribly inconvenient if you fell apart before I'm ready."
He tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the glass.
"Mildly concerning," he whispered with a smirk.
"But oh… I do love a game."
---
The city wasn't screaming yet.
But it had started holding its breath.
And breath could only be held so long.
Before something had to give.
One way.
Or another.