Chapter 91. The Sense Between Symbols

They called it the Mirrorless Shift.

A quiet week followed the convergence at the eastern ridge—a week of no glyphs flaring, no roots stirring, no fires breaking free. Silence, thick and breathless, clung to the compound like an afterthought refusing to be forgotten.

At first, the scholars believed it was regression. That the ambient glyph had drained resonance from the air itself. That the null field had scarred the ground so deeply nothing could grow or burn again.

But Aria knew better.

Because people had begun to listen.

Not to glyphs.

Not to ritual.

But to each other.

It began with the quiet ones—the cook who had never carried a mark, who once said she “couldn’t feel energy.” She paused mid-stir at dawn, glanced toward the courtyard, and whispered, “Someone’s about to speak.” Moments later, Jules entered and asked for a gathering.

Then the stable boy—a child with a limp, more straw than strength—gasped while brushing down a m