The Age of Seeds stretched onward, and the world began to hum again. Rivers found their courses, mountains rose like old gods stretching after a long sleep, and the sky itself seemed to pulse with faint colors that shifted with thought and emotion. But deep within that living dawn, a murmur began—a whisper in the wind that none could trace. Zara stood atop a ridge of obsidian-veined stone, the newborn sun casting fire across her face. The dreamers had begun to build—their villages glowing faintly in the valleys below, each a cluster of golden light and moving shadows. But now, a strange silence threaded through the air between them. Damien joined her, eyes scanning the horizon. “They’re afraid,” he said quietly. “Something’s speaking to them in their sleep.” Zara nodded. “I’ve heard it too. Like the wind’s trying to tell us a story... but the words keep breaking.” Follow current novels on 𝖓𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖑~𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖾~𝖓𝖊𝖙 The Pulse shimmered faintly beside them, dimmer than before. The Whispering Sky has awakened. It is the consciousness of the atmosphere itself—the breath of the new world. It listens, but it also hungers for memory. Damien frowned. “You mean it’s... feeding on them?” Not yet, said the Pulse. But if it absorbs too much grief, it will manifest as storm—raw emotion given form. Zara closed her eyes. She could feel it now—the subtle pull in the air, like unseen fingers brushing the edges of her mind. Each gust carried a different tone: sorrow, longing, echoes of lives lost in the old world. “It’s remembering too much,” she whispered. “The sky itself is mourning.” Down below, the first dreamers began to cry out. The wind thickened, swirling around their settlements. Threads of red lightning danced across the clouds, and from the haze, colossal shapes began to take form—silhouettes of ancient beasts, both dinosaur and undead, sculpted from vapor and light. “The world’s ghosts,” Damien said grimly, drawing his blade. “They’re being born again.” Zara stepped forward, the storm reflecting in her eyes. “No. They’re not enemies. They’re memories refusing to fade.” She raised her arms, calling out to the heavens. “We see you! You don’t have to be storms anymore!” The sky roared back—thunder like voices crying out at once. Lightning struck the ridge, shattering rock around them. The Pulse dimmed, its voice faint but steady. If you cannot calm it, the balance will collapse. The air will devour its own dreamers. Zara focused her breath, channeling light through her palms. A soft radiance spread outward, pushing against the wind. “Then let’s teach it to breathe, not rage.” Damien joined her, embedding his sword into the earth. Together, their energy rippled outward—calm, rhythmic, steady. The storm hesitated. The monstrous silhouettes froze, then slowly dissolved into rain. When silence returned, the dreamers below began to sing—low, trembling notes that rose like prayers. The Whispering Sky quieted, listening. The Pulse’s voice softened. You have given it a heart. Zara lowered her hands, breathless. “No,” she said. “We just reminded it that it already had one.” And as dawn broke once more—clear, endless, and alive—the sky itself whispered back, no longer with hunger, but with gratitude.