We were back in the planning room before breakfast the next day. The night crew had turned Yara's wax sticks into real layouts. Screens showed seating blocks, entrance routes, fire lanes and camera paths. The city map in the corner had grown a web of green and blue lines—arrival corridors and return lanes—laid over Valdris like lace.
Stella was already in a chair beside Luna when I came in, feet tucked under her, braid half undone from thinking. She had three slates. On one, the lists of names. On the second, a spreadsheet with time slots, aisle widths and little notes like don't put Aunt Mara next to the brass band. On the third, a sketch of the kids' corner with beanbags, a dragon documentary playlist and a box labelled quiet toys.
"You've been busy," I said.
