The air in the Home Dimension still carried the ozone-tinged echo of cosmic transformation, a permanent scent now, layered over the memory of birthday cake and laughter. In the wake of Luna's impossible solution for Aethel and Veridia, a strange, brittle calm had settled. The seventeen delegates were quiet, their immediate crises managed or, in two cases, miraculously resolved. The beachhead was a contained, dormant scar.
But the victory felt thin. The knowledge of what Luna had taught the enemy—the Silent Teacher, and by extension, the Lord of Nothing—hung over them all like a shroud. You couldn't fight a concept with the same weapons twice. The enemy would learn, adapt, and strike again with a deeper understanding of how to unmake them.
It was in this lull that Eleanor Silverstone's voice, thin with age but sharp as a diamond-tipped needle, cut through the unease. She had been observing from a quiet corner, her keen eyes missing nothing.
