The first sign was silence.

Not the natural quiet of night settling over a tired city, but the wrong kind—the absence of expected noise. No late tavern laughter drifting up the streets. No clatter of carts returning home. No distant arguments bleeding through thin walls. Even the guards’ boots along the outer walls sounded muted, swallowed by stone and fog, as if the city itself were afraid to make a sound.

It was the kind of quiet that came before something broke.

Draven felt ...