The room smells faintly metallic and stale from being closed overnight, and the orb sits exactly where we left it, resting on the table like it has been waiting.
As soon as I sit down in one of the chairs and really look at it, my stomach drops.
The crack running through its surface is larger than it was last night.
It is no longer a thin fracture but a jagged line that spreads across the orb’s surface like a spiderweb, and faint light pulses beneath the surface in uneven waves.
“It wasn’t like that,” I say quietly, and Axel steps closer, his expression darkening as he studies it.
“It’s growing,” Atticus adds, and there is no accusation in his voice, just observation.
I reach out and pick the orb up carefully, because it feels warm against my palms and the crack hums faintly under my
