The Hall of Echoes never echoed anymore.
Once, it had resonated with the voices of the First Speakers—ancient Hybrid elders who shaped doctrine with breath and bone. Now, the chamber was silent, lined with obsidian pillars that drank sound like thirst. Even footsteps died before they reached the vaulted ceiling.
Lysander stood at the center, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the mural carved into the far wall: the Great Unmaking—the moment humanity "fell" from primal unity into language, cities, and war.
He'd recited its meaning every morning for sixty-three years.
Today, the words tasted like ash.
Outside, the wind howled through the spires of the Old Alliance Citadel, perched high in the Carpathians. But Lysander didn't hear it. He heard something else.
A child's hum.
Faint. Distant. Yet unmistakable.
Luna.
She wasn't projecting power. Not this time. Just… being. And somehow, that was louder than any spell.
"Still brooding over the girl?" came a dry voice.
