One morning, Trask, one of the elite squad, didn't rise when the others did.
The meditation had ended. The sun was climbing. Yet he sat unmoving, eyes shut, breath so deep it was barely noticeable. A faint tremble ran through his fingers, not from cold or strain, but from something stirring beneath the surface.
Lumberling slowed as he passed by, watching quietly.
Then it happened.
A single ripple.
Not wind. Not magic.
Something internal, invisible, shuddered inside Trask's chest, like a dormant string plucked deep in his core. His scales shimmered for half a breath, subtle, nearly imperceptible, before returning to their usual rough black hue.
No dramatic glow. No howling transformation.
Just a quiet shift.
