It has been gathering in the back of Her mind, a strange, disjointed unease, quiet but persistent.

On Aballon, a swarm of cellular machines reassembles itself into a perfect geometric echo of the first note of a song just sung by a city-spanning hyper-intelligence.

On Castrovel, a festival is held to celebrate the metamorphosis of the favored child of a newly elected leader.

On Golarion, a river kingdom is toppled, reclaimed, and then toppled again.

On Akiton, one of the Enlightened glimpses the great web of possibility; it sees Her, and She sees it, and it sees Her seeing it seeing Her. On Verces, on Eox, on Triaxus and Liavara and Bretheda and Apostae and Aucturn, and on places far beyond the light of Golarion’s sun, things are changing.

And She is watching.

Years pass. Things transition from one state to another. Winter flowers into spring. People step through doors into new halls, lined with new doors, opening into still more halls. Boys become men; men grow old; the old become the dead, and the dead plot the ways they might yet damn or bring salvation to the world.

Something is wrong.

Not loudly. Not obviously.

Something is subtly, insidiously wrong.