The morning after the storm didn’t bring peace.

It brought silence.

Not the comforting kind, but the kind that felt too still. Too intentional. The streets were quiet, washed clean but not renewed. Floodwaters had receded, leaving puddles in every crack of the uneven cobblestone. Debris clung to corners where the rain had shoved it, and the air reeked of soaked wood, stone, and something else—something metallic, faint, and cold.

Something that didn’t belong.

But inside the Cathedral of Vayrith-Kaelos, the world hadn’t changed.

Or maybe… it was just pretending it hadn’t.

A servant boy hummed to himself as he swept the far corner of the nave, his steps slow, unhurried. The sound of his broom brushing against the marble barely rose above the quiet breath of whispered prayers. Incense drifted faintly in the air, and golden light filtered through the stained glass above, fractured and flickering in the aftermath of the storm.

He didn't think much about the faithful. They came with burdens he didn’t need to carry—whispers about Purity, prayers for favor, for miracles. They prayed to Crestric like she was still listening.

That was for them. He just cleaned the floors.

His tune wasn’t even a real melody—just something half-remembered, something soft. It faded as quickly as it formed, left behind with each stroke of the broom.

Until he stopped.

There, near the edge of the eastern aisle—barely visible—a hairline crack. Thin. Pale. Almost like it had always been there, waiting for someone to notice.

He frowned and stepped toward it.

Probably just a scuff. A trick of the light. Something easy.

He tapped it with the toe of his boot.

The crack deepened.

The sound it made was soft, but wrong. Not like breaking glass. More like a breath being sucked in. Like the floor had just remembered how to breathe.

He crouched, his broom forgotten at his side, and pressed his fingers to the marble.

Cold.

Not cool from the stone, but cold. Like something beneath the surface wasn’t dead yet.

The boy’s heart beat faster.

This cathedral had stood for centuries. It had outlived empires, watched generations come and go. Storms couldn’t touch it. War couldn’t shake it. Even when the lower city drowned, the cathedral stood—pristine.

So why now?

He looked up, eyes darting between the columns, waiting for someone else to see it too.

But the faithful kept praying.

No one turned. No one paused.

No one noticed.

He swallowed hard.

It was getting harder to breathe.

His gaze lifted to the base of the pillar beside the crack.

Don’t follow it, he told himself.

Just sweep.

Just forget.

But his eyes didn’t listen.

The crack continued. It spiraled upward in jagged silence, slipping through sacred carvings, running over saints who stared back with cracked, stone eyes.

Higher.

Higher.

His breath caught.

It didn’t stop.

A soft tremor rippled beneath him.

Dust drifted down from above—light at first, then thicker. It settled in his hair, on his shoulders, over the marble he’d spent the morning trying to make perfect.

Then a sound—sharp and metallic.

The chandeliers.

He looked up just in time to see them sway. Barely. Just enough to groan on their ancient chains.

The floor trembled again, stronger this time.

Some of the prayers faltered.

The boy clutched the broom like it could protect him from something he couldn’t see.

Something was wrong.

Something was waking.