The mountain split at dawn.
Not with a roar. With a sound like wet cloth tearing. The northern peak simply parted along a vertical seam, and from that wound poured darkness so complete it swallowed the morning light whole.
Lin Shen stood at the village gate. His ceremonial spear glowed in his grip, casting pale blue light across the faces of the fleeing villagers. They moved in a stream, mothers clutching children, elders supported by the young, everyone silent except for their footsteps and their shared fear bleeding through the mental network.
"Keep moving," he sent the thought to every mind. "Do not look back."
Most obeyed.
Some did not.
A young woman stopped in the middle of the path. Her name was Mei. She was seventeen. She had predicted the harvest three years in a row. Now she stared at the mountain with eyes that had gone completely white.
"Chief."
Her voice was hollow.
"It knows we're leaving."
The mountain answered her.
