Calyx grew up by a tidal plain that had once been sea floor. The water had receded over centuries, leaving mirrored flats and veins of salt that glittered in sunlight. Windmills turned slowly on the horizon, and on calm evenings, voices traveled clear for kilometers. People described the sound of those voices as the empire breathing—careful, continuous, unhurried.
Her mother, Lirael, practiced medicine as conversation. Patients left her clinic lighter not because they were cured, but because they were heard. Her father, Joren, still lectured at the local academy, using luminous glass models to demonstrate "structural empathy"—how correction required perspective, not authority. Their house contained no relics of accomplishment. Only ledgers, old correspondence, and one small vial of river water kept sealed on the mantel.
