The fields should have been alive.
They weren't.
The land around Sunslope had once breathed with purpose—soil warmed by Solara's panels, irrigation humming through shallow channels, workers moving in uneven but human rhythms. It had never been loud, never efficient in the way Central liked—but it had been alive.
Now it felt like it was holding its breath.
Rows of Solara panels stood tilted downward, misaligned in ways that caught no light. Their surfaces were clean, meticulously maintained, yet dormant—no glow, no hum, no energy flowing into the water systems they were meant to power. The irrigation channels lay dry, cracked earth creeping inward like a patient reclaiming something abandoned.
Weaver noticed immediately.
"These were aligned last time," he said quietly, stepping closer to one of the panels. His fingers hovered just above the surface, threads itching without being summoned. "Perfectly, actually. Whatever hold is here… it isn't neglect."
Allium stood a few paces away, watching the workers.
None of them wore protective coverings. No hats. No wraps. Bare skin exposed beneath Solara's harsh light. Sweat darkened their clothes, salt crusting at the edges, dehydration already pulling their movements thin and brittle.
And still—
They worked.
A man drove a tilling tool into soil that had already been turned to dust, muscles trembling from strain that should have forced rest hours ago. A woman adjusted a conduit that carried no current, fingers raw, movements exact. Each action was precise.
Too precise.
"They have no energy," Allium said, voice low. "No water. No rest."
He stepped forward, gently placing himself between one worker and the repetitive motion of the tiller.
The worker didn't react.
The tool struck Allium's shin once before stopping—not from awareness, but because Allium's presence blocked the motion.
Allium turned to face him.
"Who are you?" he asked.
His eyes searched—not the body, not the task—but inside. He knew the signs. He had lived them. The way a person retreated when control slipped away.
The worker looked up.
For a fraction of a second, something went wrong.
His eyes twitched rapidly—left, right, left—too fast, like a skipping frame. His breathing hitched sharply, shallow and uneven, chest rising twice without air entering. His jaw tightened so hard it cracked faintly, teeth grinding once before stopping.
Silence followed.
Not calm.
Empty.
Then his face smoothed.
The smile returned.
"We are content," the worker said.
The words echoed—not loud, not distorted—but flattened, as if spoken through something that had never learned inflection.
Without another glance, the worker resumed tilling soil that no longer needed it.
Allium didn't move.
He stared at the man's back, the rhythm of the motion continuing like nothing had happened.
Weaver had seen it too.
"The eyes," Weaver murmured. "They struggled."
"They always do," Allium said quietly. "Before they disappear."
They moved on, adjusting the Solara panels as they passed—realigning angles, correcting drift, small acts of resistance done carefully, so as not to draw attention. The workers didn't protest.
They didn't thank them either.
They simply continued.
"Allium," Weaver said after a time, voice deliberately casual, "I've been meaning to ask you something."
Allium adjusted another panel, careful not to brush the worker standing beneath it.
"Yes?"
"I've noticed Rose visits your room often."
Allium paused just long enough to be noticeable.
"She had questions," he said. "About the dreamscape. About accessing it."
Weaver nodded, pretending to accept the answer.
"What kind of questions?"
Allium's reply came smoothly. Too smoothly.
"How I access it. What it feels like. Training considerations."
Weaver didn't comment, but he felt the rehearsed edges of the response—the way Allium kept his gaze fixed on the panel rather than Weaver's face.
"And does she wish to go there?" Weaver asked gently.
Allium tightened the final bolt.
"Yes," he said. "She has interest."
Weaver didn't push further.
Sometimes pressure wasn't about force. Sometimes it was about time.
They moved deeper into the fields.
And somewhere behind them—
Light bent.
Not sharply. Not enough to draw the eye. Just a slight distortion, like heat rising from sand that wasn't warm. A shape wavered there—humanoid, elongated, wrong in the way reflections are wrong when they lag behind movement.
It walked without sound.
The sand did not shift beneath its steps.
It croaked softly to itself, voice scraping against air that barely acknowledged it.
"Heart… still liiiiiives…"
The words weren't meant to be heard.
They leaked.
The figure followed.
It moved closer, faster now, yet remained unseen—its outline blurring whenever it passed near working settlers, as if the ley itself folded around it in quiet acceptance.
It reached a Solara panel and climbed effortlessly onto its surface.
No weight.
No pressure.
It perched there, head tilted, watching Weaver and Allium move among the workers—watching Allium linger longer than necessary near each face.
Studying.
Learning.
The land remained silent.
The fields did not breathe.
And something that did not belong here was very pleased to be unnoticed.