Chapter 3 – Quiet Before the Echo | The Celestial Thread

The air inside the shelter didn’t move. It wasn’t warm, and it wasn’t comfortable, but it was still—so still that the sudden absence of wind made Elira’s ears ring. After hours of groaning trees and shifting fog, the quiet felt unnatural. Elira lowered herself onto the stone beside Myla, her arms trembling with relief and exhaustion. The bench was cold enough to sting through her worn trousers. Myla lay slumped against the rough wall, her chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. Her skin glowed faintly with fever, the heat rolling off her in waves. Elira brushed damp hair from Myla’s forehead, feeling how unnaturally hot she’d become. “She’s burning up more than before,” Elira whispered. Kieran didn’t answer at first. He stood at the entrance, watching the fog shift outside, fists clenched at his sides. Then he turned, jaw tight. “I know.” Elira studied him. In the dim shelter light, he looked older—shadows beneath his eyes, worry etched into every line of his face. He stepped farther inside, letting the fogged world narrow to a gray sliver behind him as he pulled a small wooden wedge from beside the entrance. “We’ll shut it before night,” he said. “I want to see how bad the wind gets first.” A soft groan escaped Myla—half breath, half whimper. Elira leaned forward. “Myla? Can you hear me?” Myla didn’t wake. But her fingers flexed, trembling against the stone as though reaching for something in a dream she couldn’t escape. Kieran crouched beside them, lowering his voice. “The fever’s deep. She’s fighting something.” Elira swallowed. “What do we do?” “Let her rest. Keep her cool if you can.” His gaze flicked toward the faint warmth beneath Myla’s skin. “And watch for changes.” The shelter remained silent. Too silent. Elira became aware of her own pulse in the quiet—slow, deliberate, louder than it should have been. With each beat, the faint warmth beneath her ribs stirred, the same place where the sap had brushed her skin hours earlier. She pressed her palm flat against the stone wall beside her. The hum softened. Not gone. Muted. She pulled her hand away. It returned. Subtle. Patient. Kieran watched her closely. “You feel it.” “Yes.” “The foothill shelters were meant to block the lowwood—fog, damp, most things that move through roots and bark,” he said. “Stone resists what watches from below.” Outside, the wind shifted. The hum tightened sharply. Myla stirred. “Elira…” she whispered. “I’m here,” Elira said. “They don’t forget,” Myla murmured. “What was taken.” The warmth beneath Elira’s ribs answered—tight, awake. The shelter hadn’t silenced the world. It had narrowed it. And whatever waited beyond the stone wasn’t listening for Myla anymore. It was listening for her.