Hours passed like whispers in windless eternity. From their perch in the upper ether, far above the Wilder mansion's crumbling hush, Sarah and Pandora remained suspended—silent, watchful, two cosmic voyeurs draped in drifting light.
Below, the Four Families dispersed one by one, carried away in convoys of magic and prestige, already reorganizing their internal structures to suit the era Parker had handed them like a burning gift. They spoke of balance, but Sarah knew better. This was survival. Power had shifted, and everyone knew the sky wouldn't hold still.
The rings Robert handed them—clean, silver, glowing faintly with Parker's essence—were keys to the Training Space Tessa had requested and Maya had redistributed. That was Maya's way. Blunt. Impersonal. Generous when it mattered most, even if she crushed your ego under her boot.
And Sarah couldn't lie—she admired that. Maya didn't fake empathy. She didn't do theatrics like Pandora. She simply was.
