The Ashvathar estate woke slowly.
Sunlight spilled across stone courtyards warmed from beneath, heat lingering from the previous night's flame rituals. Servants moved quietly, footsteps measured, careful not to disturb the natural rhythm of the house.
Arav sat beside the low dining table, legs folded beneath him, watching steam curl upward from a bowl of spiced milk.
Across from him, Isha stared intently at a floating droplet of water hovering above her palm.
It wobbled.
She frowned.
"Stay," she whispered.
The droplet quivered, then collapsed, splashing softly against the table.
Isha gasped, eyes wide. "It didn't listen!"
Sharanya laughed softly, reaching over to wipe the water away. "Not everything listens just because you ask nicely."
Arav watched in silence.
The droplet hadn't failed because Isha lacked power.
It failed because the air around it had shifted.
He felt it—faint, almost imperceptible. A pressure that didn't belong to the room, or the morning, or the estate.
Something subtle was wrong.
"Eat," Aaryan said from the head of the table. "Training waits for no one."
Arav lifted his bowl.
The moment his fingers touched the warm ceramic, heat stirred within his chest.
Not outward.
Inward.
The Ember-Thread Breathing Technique adjusted on its own, breath aligning, posture correcting without conscious effort.
The chandelier above them flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then steadied.
Isha tilted her head. "Did you feel that?"
Sharanya's smile faded just slightly.
Arav lowered his gaze.
"I think… the house noticed me," Isha said uncertainly.
Aaryan's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
Breakfast continued.
Quietly.
Too quietly.
When the meal ended, Arav followed Sharanya into the inner corridor. Sunlight slanted through the arches, catching on flame sigils etched into the walls.
As they passed beneath the central dome, Arav's vision blurred for a split second.
Not darkness.
Distortion.
The world seemed to inhale.
Then exhale.
He stumbled.
Sharanya's hand tightened instantly around his wrist.
"Arav?"
"I'm fine," he said quickly.
It was becoming a habit.
They continued walking.
But the pressure did not leave.
It followed.
Clung.
Settled somewhere behind his ribs.
That night, as the estate slept, Arav lay awake, staring at the faint glow of embers woven into the ceiling.
His breath slowed.
Aligned.
The Ember-Thread Technique moved smoothly, quietly.
Then—
The air thickened.
Not violently.
Not sharply.
Just enough to make the flames along the wall lean inward.
Arav sat up.
His heart was steady.
But his hands—
They were trembling.
Not with fear.
With pressure.
As if the space around him was slowly becoming aware that he existed.
High above the Ashvathar estate, where even fire thinned into silence, something ancient shifted.
Not alarmed.
Not hostile.
Interested.