The subtle unease that had pricked at Eleonoré in the library lingered, a faint, persistent hum beneath the surface of their peaceful days. It was like a chord struck just out of tune, barely noticeable, yet enough to shift the harmony. She found herself more often gazing out at the Luminarian sky, not with serene admiration, but with a new, quiet questioning. The familiar glow of the city seemed to shimmer differently, sometimes, almost as if catching a hidden, colder light.
Her dreams, once gentle reflections of her children's laughter and Augustus's quiet presence, began to fray at the edges. They weren't nightmares, not yet, but fragmented visions of vast, swirling energies and distant, silent screams that faded just as she tried to grasp them. She would wake with a faint tension in her shoulders, a sense of something profound disturbed far beyond their temple walls.
One evening, after the children were asleep in their chambers – Aurené nestled beside Dolores's crib, a silent guardian for her sleeping Bibi – Eleonoré found Augustus on a secluded balcony, gazing at the star-dusted void. The air there felt thinner, colder than elsewhere in the temple.
"The light feels... different," she murmured, stepping to his side. She didn't specify how or why, just the feeling.
Augustus's gaze remained fixed on the expanse. "The cosmos breathes, Eleonoré. Sometimes, its breath shifts." His voice was low, carrying the weight of ancient knowledge he rarely showed. He didn't elaborate, but the quiet confirmation in his tone was enough. His earlier comment about rare, quiet mornings echoed in her mind.
A cold certainty, unbidden, settled in Eleonoré's heart. This wasn't just a fleeting feeling or a trick of the light. Something was indeed stirring, a vastness that threatened to ripple even into their cherished sanctuary. For now, the peace held, a fragile bubble in the immense, silent universe. But Eleonoré could feel the distant currents beginning to stir, and a quiet, building dread began to replace her gentle contentment.