Hestia kneels before the sacred flame in the center of the hearth hall, watching the fire sink lower than it has in a thousand years. She holds her hands out to the warmth, feeling the heat fade against her palms. The flame should burn eternal — it has never dimmed before, not once in all her watching. She feeds another chaste flower twig into the golden hearth, but the fire barely responds. The carved designs on the bronze basin seem to darken as shadows creep across the floor. Outside, through the high windows, the sky shifts from brilliant sunset to something gray and drained, like color itself is being pulled away from the world. Hestia's hands move without thought, adding oil and kindling the way they always have. But the flame sinks lower still. She thinks of the family she saw go silent when their hearth went dark — how they stopped looking at each other by morning, how their home became just walls and empty chairs. Every hearth in the mortal world draws from this flame. If it fails here, it fails everywhere. She sits back on her heels and stares at the dying light. The flame gutters once, twice, then steadies at barely a handspan high. It doesn't go out. Not yet. But for the first time in her endless watch, Hestia cannot promise it will last through the night.