CHAPTER EIGHT

GISELLE.

The air in Hearth was still, far too still for a place so full of life. It was as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to pass -- like holding your breath might save you from being seen, from being taken. The city, once alive with the harmonious rhythm of nature and civilization, now sat in that uneasy silence, cloaked in it like a sword or a shield. The trees stood like forgotten sentinels, their vibrant leaves withering under the suffocating heat of a drought that had gripped us for weeks. The earth, the very ground we lived and fought for, seemed to be shrinking, starving itself under the relentless sun. No ritual, no prayer had been enough to draw down the rain. The trees whispered in the wind, but their whispers were desperate now. This was an ill omen.