"You do not fit," she told him one evening as they stood beneath an artificial sky layered with drifting constellations. "Every path I observe bends when you enter it."
Vahn's voice was low. "Perhaps you have been looking for control when you should be looking for correction."
She studied him for a long moment.
"That is a dangerous philosophy," she said.
"So is ruling an empire that fears change," he replied.
Something softened between them in those moments. Not romance in the conventional sense. Something deeper. A shared recognition of burden.
They were both alone at the summit, surrounded by power yet isolated by it.
On the fourth day, Vahn's cultivation shifted.
It did not explode outward like his previous breakthroughs.
It condensed.
The Void within him slowed, its vastness folding inward, refining itself into layers so dense they bent space around his body without outward release. Law patterns began forming naturally along his meridians, not imposed, but grown.
