Three weeks after the Lattice fell, the skies of the realm bore no cracks. No whispers. No echoes.
Peace—true peace—unfolded in gentle hours and golden mornings. The rivers ran clear through the Myrrhwood. The stars hummed quiet lullabies. And for the first time in decades, Miraen dreamed without shadows.
She sat on the terrace of the White Ember Keep, sketching lines across a parchment—half map, half memory. It was a habit she'd started during the days of war, something to anchor her. Now, her quill drifted more slowly, less like defense, more like reflection.
But even in stillness, she knew the tides of magic were changing again.
Lira arrived shortly before dusk. Her armor was polished, her red braid longer than before, her eyes ringed with concern.
"They're here," she said, stepping into the light.
Miraen rose. "The Starless Envoys?"
