Chapter 12. The First Unraveling

The wind arrived first. Not a breeze, but a shiver through the trees—an air that seemed to inhale before exhaling ruin. By dawn, the fog had rolled in thick and low, curling around the dormitories like a living thing. Windows refused to reflect. Shadows moved independently of their casters. And beneath the western ridge, the ground began to hum.

Aria stood barefoot in the hall, listening.

Not to the voices around her, but to something deeper. Beneath the stone. Beneath the language of prophecy. The forest had shifted again. It no longer whispered her name.

It echoed it.

Jules entered quietly, handing her a steaming mug of bitterroot tea. “Three more birds fell out of the sky. And a Keeper found moss growing on his sword hilt. He hadn’t touched it since yesterday.”

Aria took a sip. “Everything’s reversing.”

Jules frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not just collapse. It’s memory. The world’s remembering before it chose its shape. The Hollowed