“Hmm,” murmured Tobias, frowning as he tucked the spool into a hidden pocket of his cloak. “We both felt that rift, after all. If something’s tampering with the Boundary, it’s not some idle hobby. They must be dabbling in powers they don’t understand.” He flicked his gaze downwards as a blunt-nosed bulldog waddled into the room. Cecil, his jowls quivering with each breath, seemed eternally unimpressed by the concept of cosmic threats.

[…]

Thus prepared, they set out. Horses had been borrowed from a taciturn stablehand who asked no questions—Tumbledown’s sort-of watchers were generally given a wide berth when they came round with that certain gleam in their eyes. The morning was crisp, and the air carried the faint perfume of wild herbs. As they rode over the softly undulating hills, Tobias and Miles occupied themselves with idle observations and the occasional jibe. They travelled in watchful silence for a time, hooves thudding against packed earth. At length, Tobias cast Miles a sidelong glance, jaw set.

[…] Rifts were rare—accidents in the natural order of things. Most inhabitants of Tumbledown wouldn’t recognise one if it glowed pink and started yodelling, but Tobias was no ordinary inhabitant. He set down a scroll he’d been perusing (something about an obscure centuries-old wormwood ale recipe) and pressed his palm to the damp cobblestone. A faint whisper of energy played across his fingertips […] that hum in the air felt more like what he’d first suspected. He exhaled slowly, torn between apprehension and a strange flicker of excitement. Rumours of a rogue artisan had reached him in hushed tones—someone dabbling in intangible bargains, weaving regrets and memories like a tapestry waiting to unravel. Could this fledgling rift be tied to that meddling?