AREN'S
The first tremor was so slight that most people mistook it for imagination—a subtle wrongness beneath the soles of their feet, like standing on a bridge while a heavy truck passes far below. Aren felt it immediately. Not because of power—he no longer had that luxury—but because he had learned to listen in quieter ways.
He stopped mid-step in the narrow street, the sound of the marketplace continuing around him: voices bargaining, metal clinking, a child laughing too loudly. Emma was a pace ahead, turning back when she noticed his stillness.
"You felt that," she said.
It wasn't a question.
He nodded. "Not a surge. Not a Well."
"Then what?"
Aren scanned the street. Nothing looked broken. No cracks in the stone. No frightened faces. Life continued, oblivious.
"That's what worries me," he said.
