It had been three days since the mirror cracked beneath the Temple of Ink.
Three days since the wards whispered without wind. Since names began appearing in the mouths of those who never learned them. Since Echo stopped trusting the sound of her own voice in silent rooms.
She had not slept since then.
Not truly.
Now, as dawn paled the mist curling over the shrine district, she walked alone—barefoot, veiled, listening not for prayers, but for fractures.
Ash drifted like forgotten snow.
It caught on the cloaks of passing priests and softened the corners of broken stone, settling between the cracks where the city no longer bothered to sweep. The shrine district, once a place of clean-swept cobbles and perfumed prayers, now smelled faintly of smoke, and something sweeter. Rot in silk robes.
Prexie Echo moved without escort.
