The night was not dark.
Nothing was dark anymore. The cracks in the sky bled light—pale, thin, endless—and the shadows had forgotten how to hold. Athena had been standing at the map table for hours. Or days. She couldn't tell anymore.
The silver lines flickered.
She traced one with her finger—a fracture near the eastern sector, thin as a hair but growing. The line pulsed once, twice, then shifted. Moved. She had mapped it three times already. Three times, it had changed.
"Hold still," she muttered.
The line didn't listen.
Athena pressed her palm against the table. Her power flowed into the silver lattice, steadying it, forcing the fractures to hold their shape. For a moment—just a moment—the map stabilized.
Then a new crack opened in the western sector.
Athena stared at it.
She hadn't seen that one coming. Hadn't mapped it. Hadn't even sensed the stress point. It was just there, thin and bright, spreading like a vein across the glowing lines.
She closed her eyes.
Breathed.
