The sky over the village was unusually pale, not cloudy, just… bleached. The light felt sickly, and Ember noticed it first.
She rubbed her temples, eyes narrowed at the horizon. The way the shadows bent around the houses, just slightly wrong. Too long. Too still.
Ash returned from the market path with a small pouch slung over his shoulder, breathless.
"Hey. They're saying old man Dren tried to lock his wife in the smokehouse. Said she wasn't her anymore."
Ember blinked. "What?"
"Yeah. Then three others swore she was a shape-changer, or a witch." He offered a weak smile. "Guess we're not the only ones with a dramatic past."
But she didn't smile.
"Something's moving through them," she said quietly. "Like fog between cracks."
"You think it's the Mindweaver again?"
"I don't think it ever left."
