The Valley woke me early this morning. Not gently. It was the kind of wakefulness that arrives before thought, before language, before the body even catches up. The air had weight. The stones were warm. Something was calling for attention.

The Valley has been strange this week. Even the stones seem to be listening. There’s a restlessness in the air, not chaos, not omen, just the sense that something is shifting beneath the obvious, like a pulse under skin.

The sky has been louder than usual this week, a kind of pressure in the air, like something vast leaning in to listen. You’ve felt it in your skin, in your sleep, in the way time has stretched. The Umbrians call this the Supermoon Gate, when the Moon drifts closest to the Earth and the veil between matter and meaning thins to a breath.

Greetings, dear members of the Obsidian Circle, It's Penelope Blakk here, your guide to the magical lands of Obsidia Valley. Today, I...