The walk to Thornwood was a two-hour trudge through fog that tasted of rust. When he arrived at the contested fence line, he saw it immediately: a shimmer, like heat haze over a road, but cold. The air where the stream should be was wrinkled. The pig, a large, unapologetic sow, sat on the “wrong” side, chewing a thistle with smug satisfaction.

Click.

The sound was not electronic. It was the sound of a heavy book closing. Of a door latching. Of a final, agreed-upon word.

“Morning, Kael,” said Elara, the senior surveyor, already hunched over her own Blackberry across the tent. Steam from bitter tea coiled around her face. “The Thornwood border is whispering again.”

> BOUNDARY STABLE. BUT THE LAND REMEMBERS YOU NOW, CARTOGRAPHER. TURN AROUND.

“Whispering or screaming?” Kaelen asked, not looking up. He was reviewing yesterday’s data. A line he had drawn—a small stream between two hamlets—had moved three feet east overnight.