The room had no walls.
Not because it was infinite—but because it refused to be defined.
Luna stood barefoot on a surface that felt like glass, water, and skin all at once. Above her, no ceiling. Just shifting constellations that rearranged themselves every time she blinked. The air smelled faintly of rain and old paper.
She wasn't alone.
Four figures waited at the cardinal points, each standing in their own kind of light.
To the north: Kael, cloaked in twilight, arms crossed. His presence hummed with the weight of forgotten wars.
To the east: Victoria, sharp and still as a scalpel, eyes black as void-core, posture rigid with scientific certainty.
To the south: Lysander, older now in this space—his face lined not by age but by regret—wearing robes that flickered between Alliance gray and something softer, almost human.
To the west: Miko, gauntlet dimmed, expression unreadable. She didn't smile. Didn't frown. Just watched.
