I risk a glance at him.
His eyes glow softly in the Glowworm moonlight, some combination of tenderness and hunger and awe written there that makes my chest hurt.
“That’s because it is right, Alina,” he says, my name a low promise. “My Oona.”
My pulse jumps.
God, I am so in trouble with this man.
Dangerously close to loving him?
Yeah. That line was several miles back.
I think I blew past it the second he called me Oona and the earth went quiet for us.
Before I can say anything else, a flicker of movement catches my eye.
Down below, near the outermost terraces, the ground ripples.
It’s subtle—just a shiver along one of the lower retaining walls, a brief darkening of soil, like something exhaled under the surface.
I would’ve missed it before. Might even have chalked it up to tired eyes.
Now?
The moment it happens, my stomach drops.
Something is wrong.
“Dagan,” I say sharply, pointing. “Did you feel that?”
His head whips toward the terraces, eyes narrowing. For a beat, nothing happens.
Then the Marches answer.
A low, grinding rumble rises from below, like the entire land is clearing its throat.
The stone under our feet trembles—not much, not like the big quakes I’ve felt before.
But it’s there. A warning. A pressure building where there shouldn’t be any.
“What is it?” I whisper, even though I already know.
His jaw tightens. “The wards are shifting.”
I stare down into the darkness, heart pounding. The farmers’ fields look peaceful, lanterns swaying gently in the wind.
Somewhere out there are the people we met today.
Varen and his family. Kids who pressed glowing seeds into my hands and asked me if I really came from a world with no Dreamwrights.
The earth pulses again.
Not a greeting this time.
More like a bruise.
A bruise that’s spreading.
