"The world does not collapse in war. It collapses when the wise grow quiet." — Old Evalian Record
The sun had barely lifted when the council chamber filled. Dew still clung to the marble steps of Evalia's Citadel, and the banners above hung heavy with mist. Ken stood beside Reka-sensei at the long obsidian table, the shard from Kurogane sealed inside a crystal vessel that hummed softly—an echo of Queen Orynne's voice still whispering in his thoughts.
Across the table sat the surviving leaders:
Ayumi-sensei with her pale hands folded in prayer,
Captain Daire from the northern watch, and at the head — Prince Qinglua, his father's mantle draped loosely across his shoulders.
He looked older than a single night could make a man.
Kabe entered last, bowing once before placing his report upon the table.
"The sea isn't sleeping," he began. "The shards we found match the ancient alloy used in the first rail foundations. Something beneath the northern trench is stirring the old metals again."
A murmur spread through the chamber. Ayumi's eyes flicked toward Ken.
"And the myths?" she asked. "What did Rudhana show you?"
Ken hesitated, the memory still sharp.
"I saw a woman — a queen — and the birth of the rails. She said the Trails were locks, not roads. If they're humming again, something's trying to open."
Reka stepped forward. "Then the legends were right. The Compact wasn't just unity; it was containment."
Prince Qinglua rose, his shadow stretching across the council floor.
"If the locks are failing, we rebuild them. Station by station. No hesitation."
Kabe shook his head. "Rebuilding won't help if the key's already turning. Whatever's beneath the sea is aware of us. It knows our names."
Silence. Then Ayumi spoke softly.
"Then perhaps it remembers the authors Queen Orynne warned of."
Her words hung in the air like a curse.
The chamber's lights flickered. The crystal vessel cracked, releasing a thin pulse of blue flame that drifted upward and vanished through the ceiling. The sound that followed was not thunder, but the first faint chime of a distant rail—Durama's line, long broken, singing by itself.
Reka's expression hardened.
"The rails are awakening," he said.
Prince Qinglua turned toward the window, where the dawn glimmered like steel.
"Then so must we."