Thereās a reason Skycrown never feels still, even on the quietest of mornings. Leylines knot hereā old and stubborn ones by the feel of it when I reach for themā braided together beneath stone and soil. You can feel it if you sit still long enough. It makes others feel uneasy, though I have always felt comforted by the buzzing in my skull. I always have. It quiets the voices that otherwise threaten to drown out my own. Iāve traced the perimeter of the island so many times I know where the wind changes directionā funneled through short valleys tucked between small peaks. Iāve become familiar with the way the air thins at the eastern edge; the western rise where the ground hums louder to me, resonating through the boulders rather than being tamped down by earth. Thereās a stretch near the treeline where birds refuse to nest, though I havenāt yet discovered why. At first, I told myself it was habit. Security. Familiarity. Like trying to learn the lines of a room. But after enough circuits, I had to stop pretending. The island answers me in small ways. A pulse beneath my boots. A pressure behind my eyes. The subtle tug at my hands as if to say, Come this way. Drink. Go onā just a sip. Truly, Skycrown is a place where things gather. Power. Ambition. Now all it needs is people. There are prices it never names out loud, payments I have made for this in more than just gold. Drawing from a confluence leaves its marks. Certainly, itās sharpened me. Quickened my responses. Strengthened my spells. But it has dulled other things. Rest comes shallow now. Silence feelsā¦ crowded. When the leylines go quiet, when the heat ebbs, something in me does, tooā and I hate how quickly I am noticing the absence. Iāve told myself it was a discipline, not a dependency. I was curating, not consuming. I tell myself a lot of things. Skycrown draws eyes the way power and grandeur always do, measuring my island as a resource rather than a place. Some are open and curious, perhaps even covetous. Others are subtler. They donāt look at the landā they look at me. No accusations, not yet. I suppose observation is subtler than confrontation. Questions come softer than accusations. The question is where the line actually sits between stewardship and indulgence, between control and comfort. Skycrown hasnāt answered that for me. It only hums patiently beneath my feet. Youāre tired. Let me hold you.
