The first mortal to notice something had changed did not see the sky fracture.
He did not feel divine pressure.
He did not hear angels.
He simply woke up crying.
Edrin of Whitefall had been a potter all his life. A quiet one. The kind of man people forgot existed unless they needed a bowl repaired or a jug replaced. His hands were strong, scarred by clay and kiln heat, his back permanently bent from years at the wheel. He had never prayed particularly hard, never fasted beyond what poverty required, never claimed visions or voices.
Yet that night, he woke with tears streaming down his face, heart pounding as if he had just remembered something unbearably precious.
He rose from his bed and stepped outside barefoot.
The moon hung low over the hills.
And for reasons he could not explain, he knelt.
Not in fear.
Not in reverence.
But in recognition.
"Ah," he whispered, voice breaking. "There you are."
The words were not a prayer. They were not a request.
They were relief.
Far above, beyond angels and gods, Luna slept peacefully in David's arms.
And the world listened.
David felt the shift not as danger, but as movement.
It rippled outward through the System—faint at first, then clearer—tiny fluctuations in belief-weight that did not spike or concentrate, but spread. Not worship. Not devotion.
Attention.
Danielle noticed it moments later, her expression tightening as new data threads resolved in her perception. "Something's happening," she said quietly. "Not divine. Mortal."
Rose leaned forward. "Localized?"
Danielle shook her head slowly. "No. Diffuse. That's the problem."
Carlisle growled low. "Talk to us."
David closed his eyes, letting his awareness widen just enough. He felt it then: isolated points of soft resonance igniting across the world like distant lanterns. A fisherman pausing mid-cast to look at the moon. A grieving mother feeling her chest loosen for the first time in months. A soldier lowering his weapon because, suddenly, the night felt… kinder.
Not belief.
Response.
"They're noticing her," David said.
Rose's smile was thin. "Without being told to."
"That's worse," Danielle whispered.
High above, the loyalist Hosts reacted instantly.
Surveillance vectors snapped tighter, recalibrating around the emergent pattern. Where Luna had blurred direct observation, indirect analysis surged in response. Mortal behavior metrics, cultural inference models, symbolic probability engines—all spun up at once.
The lead host's voice cut through the sky, sharp and immediate.
"Influence escalation detected. Civilizational penetration at sub-theological levels."
The dissenting Hosts stiffened, halos brightening in alert alignment.
"No coercion identified," the blue-edged Host replied. "No doctrine established."
"Irrelevant," snapped the lead host. "Influence without doctrine is uncontrolled."
David looked up slowly. "That's called life."
The lead host ignored him.
"Initiating narrative containment."
Danielle's eyes widened. "Oh no."
Carlisle turned sharply. "What?"
"They're not going after Luna," Danielle said, voice tight. "They're going after interpretation."
Rose laughed softly, humorless. "Of course they are."
Across the world, the shift became visible.
Priests dreamed of a pale false idol stealing faith in the night. Scholars awoke with sudden certainty that the moon's influence was a cyclical aberration to be corrected. In high temples, bells rang without being touched, summoning clergy who did not know why they felt afraid—only that they should be.
And Edrin of Whitefall, the potter, felt a warmth in his chest and made the mistake of telling someone.
By morning, Whitefall was uneasy.
People spoke in hushed tones about strange dreams. About calm that felt wrong. About the moon seeming closer than before. Edrin tried to explain what he had felt—how the night had seemed to recognize him, how his grief for his dead wife had eased just enough to breathe.
He did not say "goddess."
He did not say "divine."
He simply said, "The moon was… kind."
That was enough.
By noon, a priest had arrived.
By dusk, Edrin was on his knees in the square, hands bound, eyes wide with confusion as the crowd watched in fearful silence.
"You claim revelation," the priest said coldly.
Edrin shook his head desperately. "No, Father, I just—"
"You felt something."
"Yes, but—"
"And you speak of it."
"I didn't mean—"
The priest raised his hand.
"Silence."
Far away, David's eyes snapped open.
"They've found one," he said.
Danielle paled. "Already?"
Rose's jaw tightened. "Fast learners."
The dissenting Hosts reacted sharply, several turning their attention earthward.
"Mortal suppression detected," one reported. "Preemptive doctrinal enforcement."
The lead host spoke immediately.
"Acceptable collateral."
David moved.
Not toward the sky.
Toward the world.
Reality bent—not violently, not explosively—but decisively, folding distance like cloth. One step carried him across continents, the plateau vanishing behind him as the world reassembled around his presence.
He appeared at the edge of Whitefall's square.
No thunder.
No light.
Just arrival.
The crowd froze.
The priest turned slowly, eyes widening as he took in David's presence—not overwhelming, not radiant, but undeniable. Luna slept against his chest, moonlight soft around her, unnoticed by most but felt by all.
"What—who are you?" the priest demanded.
David looked at Edrin first.
The potter stared back, tears streaking his face.
"You didn't do anything wrong," David said gently.
Then he looked at the priest.
"Let him go."
The priest stiffened, authority flaring. "By whose command?"
David's voice was calm.
"Mine."
The air tightened.
High above, the loyalist Hosts reacted instantly, surveillance spiking, authority pressure descending like a tightening net.
The lead host's voice thundered.
"Direct intervention detected. Violation of provisional agreement."
David didn't look up.
"You said you'd watch me," he replied evenly. "This is me."
The priest swallowed hard, hands trembling. "You—this is heresy."
Luna stirred.
Not fully awake.
Just enough.
She shifted against David's chest and murmured, barely audible—
"Don't be mean."
The words were soft.
The effect was not.
The priest's authority collapsed.
Not erased.
Hollowed.
His certainty drained away like water from cracked stone, leaving only confusion and shame. The ropes binding Edrin fell apart in his hands, fibers unraveling as if they had forgotten why they were tied.
The crowd gasped.
Some fell to their knees.
Others backed away in fear.
David knelt beside Edrin, helping him up. "Go home," he said. "Rest."
Edrin sobbed openly. "Who… who is she?"
David glanced at the moon.
Then back at the potter.
"She's just someone who doesn't want you to suffer," he said.
Above, the sky roared.
The lead host's light flared violently.
"This exceeds containment parameters."
David finally looked up.
"Yes," he agreed. "It does."
The dissenting Hosts moved—subtly, decisively—interposing themselves between heaven and earth.
"Objection," the blue-edged Host said. "Mortal harm prevented. No escalation justified."
The lead host's voice shook with restrained fury.
"This path leads to schism."
David stood, Luna secure in his arms.
"It already has," he said. "You just didn't notice."
As the crowd dispersed in shaken silence, as Edrin stumbled home under a moon that felt closer than ever, David felt it clearly now:
Luna did not need temples.
She did not need prophets.
But the world would create them anyway.
And heaven would have to decide—
Suppress them…
Or learn to listen.