The forest breathed. It was the first thing Elian noticed. Not the mechanical thrum of gunships or the oppressive silence of the null-field, but the deep, organic respiration of the world itself. The air was cool and sweet, carrying the scent of damp earth, night-blooming flowers, and the faint, clean aroma of ozone that was the last ghost of their impossible song. Above, the twin moons cast a soft, blue-silver light, painting the jungle in monochrome.
They stood for a long time, just breathing it in. The transformed base behind them was a silent, sculptural mound, a burial cairn for a way of thinking that had died inside it. No alarms blared. No searchlights scoured the canopy. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves, the chirrup of night insects, and the distant call of something lonely and deep-throated.
The silence was a physical relief, a weight lifted from their chests.
Then, the exhaustion hit them like a collapsing wall.
