A month after they returned from the eastern territories, the anchor configuration began to speak.

Not in words. Not in images. In frequency, the way all the configurations communicated, in the specific language of vibration that Marina had been learning to read since before she understood that was what she was doing.

She was at the boundary stones running her morning check when it happened for the first time. A low warm pulse from the anchor, distinct from the broadcast, distinct from her own five frequencies, coming from the direction of the source level itself. Not an instruction. Not information in any format she could translate directly.

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