Elara Thornécroft heard the bell through the roots.
Stone should not carry sound like soil.
Cloud islands should not remember vibrations like old forests.
Astral Zenith Academy ignored both facts with the confidence of a place built by mages who mistook success for wisdom.
Elara stood in the Garden of Whispers after midnight, one hand resting against the trunk of a silver-barked moonwillow. The garden floated on the eastern side of the academy, suspended above a sea of clouds by anchors older than the towers above it. Lantern moths drifted between violet blossoms. Small spirit birds slept with their heads tucked beneath glass-blue wings.
Everything looked peaceful.
That was the garden's first lie.
Beneath the paved paths, roots wrapped around ancient stone channels. Beneath the roots, old Aether lines pulsed like veins. Beneath those lines, something had moved when the Spire bell rang.
Not awakened.
Not yet.
Turned in its sleep.
Elara closed her eyes.
