The victory was a fragile, trembling thing. The void had recoiled, but its presence was a stain on the edge of perception, a cold draft under the door. The Sentinel's Chorus continued, a constant, vigilant hum that was the new baseline of existence for both communities. The Wellspring's rotations became more structured, their singers resting in shifts to maintain the relentless reinforcement of the First Note's shield. The joyful, expansive work of growth was now tempered by the wearying duty of defense.
In the Place of the First Note, the mood was somber. Their world, which had been expanding, now felt claustrophobic. The carvings on their walls, once symbols of reclamation, now felt like the bars of a cage. They tended their garden, they sang their pump-song, but their eyes were constantly drawn to the northern ridge, to the pass that led to the unknown.
