The packhouse does not sleep after Kian’s message, not really, because even when bodies rest, minds keep pacing, and the air itself feels too tight to settle. I spend the first hour after the transmission walking the corridors with Adam and Justin, listening rather than speaking, letting the rhythm of boots on stone and the low murmur of clipped orders ground me while plans begin to take shape under pressure that no one bothers pretending is manageable.
Everyday things keep happening alongside it all, which is almost worse than the crisis itself, because it highlights how violently wrong everything has gone. Someone spills coffee near the stairwell and apologizes too many times. A runner stops to retie a lace with shaking fingers. A healer snaps at a warrior to sit still while a shallow c
