Snow began to fall as they stepped deeper into the ruins.
Not a blizzard. Not even wind. Just a steady, whisper-soft descent—flakes so perfectly symmetrical they looked etched by hand.
Meredith glanced up. "I didn't notice any clouds before."
"There weren't any," Richard said.
The flakes clung to his cloak but didn't melt. Instead, they shimmered faintly—almost like glass. He plucked one off his shoulder, only for it to sink into his glove like ink into paper.
And suddenly, he felt tired.
Just for a second.
A brief weight behind the eyes. A tug of lethargy that didn't belong.
Then it passed.
"Did you feel that?" Meredith asked, voice quiet but taut. She was watching him closely.
"Yeah," he muttered, confused—startled. And more than anything, wary. Something instinctive coiled tight inside him, whispering of danger.
He glanced back at the snow. Still falling, still soft. Still wrong.
"We need cover," he said sharply. "Now."
