The river had gone still. Not calm—waiting. Its surface reflected nothing, as if the light itself refused to look down.

Bella’s hand stayed in Alfred’s, fingers slick from the mist. The water at their feet glowed faintly, a deep gold laced with red, pulsing in rhythm with her mark.

“It’s waking again,” Alfred said quietly.

She nodded. “It’s not just water. It’s a mouth.”

A low crack sounded beneath them. The riverbed split like glass under pressure, thin ...