A week had passed since the planetary phenomena shook Lunara to its foundations.
The world had not calmed. If anything, the silence that followed the phenomena was the kind of silence that precedes something worse — not the silence of resolution but the silence of held breath, of hands tightening on weapons not yet drawn, of eyes moving to exits before the threat has fully materialized. Every day that passed without an answer to what had happened seemed to wind the tension tighter rather than release it.
Unrest spread like a slow tide creeping over every horizon simultaneously.
People moved differently now — with wary glances and hands that lingered near storage rings or weapon hilts as though expecting shadows to strike from directions they hadn't thought to watch. Trade caravans that had once moved along established routes with the comfortable confidence of routine now rumbled forward bristling with newly purchased defensive talismans and twice the usual guard complement, their drivers scanning treelines and skylines with the particular alertness of people who have recently been reminded that the world is dangerous. Markets across the planet saw the prices of defensive and life-saving resources climb daily — not spiking in the chaotic way that panic produces, but rising steadily, deliberately, in the way that sustained fear produces when it has decided to become a permanent feature of the landscape. Dao comprehension materials — once traded freely among cultivators seeking advancement — had largely vanished from open markets, hoarded jealously by clans and sects unwilling to sell what might become the margin between survival and extinction in the conflicts everyone could feel approaching.
Merchants, ever opportunistic, whispered of impending doom in hushed tavern corners while quietly pocketing record profits from the frenzied buying. The irony was not lost on the ones perceptive enough to notice it — that fear, properly harvested, was among the most reliable revenue streams the world had ever produced.
Minor clans fortified their borders with hastily erected formations layered over old ones, recalling disciples from distant training grounds to bolster numbers that suddenly felt inadequate. Rogue sects and beast tribes grew bolder — raiding supply lines under the convenient excuse of uncertain times, their howls echoing through nights that seemed darker than they had been the week before. Even the mighty Luna Clan, though outwardly serene and untouchable in their silver-glowing expanse, had quietly doubled patrols along their fringes and accelerated resource stockpiling with a subtlety that fooled no one paying close enough attention.
Sound talismans buzzed incessantly between continents, carrying theories that multiplied faster than they could be disproven — a supreme ancestor ascending somewhere in the frozen north, an ancient seal breaking beneath the southern seas, the birth of a heaven-chosen whose path would drown worlds in blood before raising one to glory. No one knew the source. Everyone felt the shift. Alliances were quietly reaffirmed across old grudge lines that had seemed permanent a month ago. The era of relative peace that had governed Lunara for the past several centuries balanced now on a knife's edge of suspicion and preparation, trembling in a wind that everyone could feel but no one could see the source of.
In the Crimson Veil, the Voss Clan maintained an outward calm that required more effort than it appeared to cost.
The ancestral estate's main hall — a vast chamber whose walls of pulsing blood crystal veins cast their familiar arterial glow across floors etched with intricate vitality runes that glowed faintly underfoot like embers — hosted a meeting of the core elders that morning. Patriarch Arcturus sat at the head of the table, expression unreadable, as reports flowed in from the scouts and contacts the clan maintained across the continent and its immediate neighbors.
"The world stirs," Elder Harlan began, unrolling a map across the table's center — its surface marked with notations in fresh ink, the handwriting of people who had been up through the night compiling information. "Caravans from Ruby Shore report doubled guards on every route. The Iron Fang Clan—" a brief pause carrying its own commentary on the Iron Fang Clan, "—have tripled patrols along our shared sea border. They probe, but not openly yet. They're feeling for weakness before they commit to anything."
Grand Elder Valeria nodded gravely, her divination sphere sitting on the table before her, its surface swirling with slow patterns that had been agitated since the night of the phenomena and had not fully settled since. "Our allies confirm the same picture elsewhere. Prices for defensive resources climb daily without plateau. Smaller forces hoard what they can; greater ones watch and wait. The Luna Clan remains publicly silent — but their trade partners are asking more questions than usual, and the questions are too specific to be casual curiosity."
Mira, the scholarly elder, folded her hands with the careful precision of someone organizing their words alongside their thoughts. "Rumors continue multiplying unchecked. Some point east, some west, some fabricate origins entirely out of nothing. Our delay has held — no direct attention points here yet. But the window is not unlimited." She paused, allowing herself one moment of unscholarly bluntness. "And the merchants are pouring fuel on the fire with every whisper they sell. The chaos is accelerating faster than natural fear alone would drive it."
Arcturus leaned forward, his gaze steady and carrying the particular quality of command that does not need volume to convey weight. "Then we proceed as planned. The celebration tonight — within the estate grounds. Grand, but contained. No invitations beyond our continent and immediate neighbors, nothing that signals exceptional reach or ambition." He looked at Harlan. "Simultaneously, a festival throughout the Veil — public feasts in every major settlement, spirit beast hunts open to common cultivators, blood essence distributions to loyal families. Let the continent rejoice openly. Let the joy be visible and the strength behind it be felt without being announced." A brief pause. "We show no weakness. Not tonight, not ever."
Harlan grunted his approval with the satisfaction of a man whose instincts had been confirmed. "Maintains our image among our people. Gives no opening for anyone to seed discontent among our forces while we're occupied with guests."
Valeria's thin smile carried the quality of someone appreciating a well-laid trap. "And the timing — we maintain the account of the coup organized by Thorne in the aftermath of the phenomena, during the chaos surrounding the birth. Hours after the signs faded. Internal strife, swiftly resolved. Nothing connected to the heavens."
Arcturus rose — and the room rose with him in the way rooms do when someone with genuine authority moves. "Prepare the courtyard. Reinforce the estate's outer wards subtly — nothing that announces itself to a guest's senses. Watch every face that walks through our gates tonight. We show strength without revealing our hand." He looked around the table one final time. "The Voss Clan has endured greater pressures than this with less preparation. We endure tonight as well."
As the elders dispersed to oversee the arrangements that would transform the estate from a fortress into something that resembled celebration, the Crimson Veil began to wake.
Throughout the continent, the preparations moved outward from the estate like ripples from a stone dropped in still water. Towns and villages lit crimson lanterns that bobbed gently in the evening breeze, their warm light catching the ever-present mist and turning it rose-gold against the dark. Street vendors distributed free spirit wine from massive barrels that had been staged days in advance, the air in every settlement filling with laughter and the smell of roasting meats and the particular loosening that comes when people who have been frightened for a week are given permission to set that fear down for one night. Public stages hosted performances of blood illusion dancers whose graceful movements painted temporary visions of legendary warriors and soaring dragons in the air above their heads, drawing roaring crowds who pointed and cheered and forgot, for a few hours, the sound talismans buzzing with bad news in their storage rings.
Common folk rejoiced in the unexpected bounty, whispering of the clan's generosity after recent sorrow, their spirits lifting with the shared warmth of a celebration that felt — whatever its calculated origins — genuinely human in its effect. The festival spread joy through the Crimson Veil the way the blood mist spread through its air — pervasively, naturally, until it was simply part of the atmosphere.
And distraction, well deployed, is a form of strength.
By nightfall, the estate courtyard had transformed.
Massive blood crystal chandeliers hovered overhead in configurations that turned the open air into something resembling an interior — their light casting a warm, arterial glow across acres of polished stone floors that had been cleared and cleaned to a mirror shine. Long banquet tables lined the space in careful arrangement, groaning under the weight of delicacies that announced abundance without shouting it: towering roasts of crimson-scale wyrms infused with vitality essence that released fragrant steam in slow curling columns, crystal bowls of blood orchid elixir that restored weary meridians with each sip and left a lingering warmth in the meridians that reminded cultivators of their best training days, platters of scarlet phoenix eggs poached in Dao essence oil that carried a faint, pleasant charge on the tongue. Desserts of essence-infused crimson fruits that burst with invigorating sweetness were arranged at intervals along every table, and spirit wines of three different vintages sat in formation at each place setting like a small, welcoming army.
Floating platforms positioned throughout the space bore musicians whose blood-string instruments wove melodies that stirred vitality in the blood and settled the mind simultaneously — the particular combination that makes people feel simultaneously energized and at ease, generous with their conversation and open in their expressions. Illusion arrays projected soaring dragons and blooming lotuses across the sky above the courtyard — echoes of the phenomena, subtle and deliberate, present enough to acknowledge without being explicit enough to confirm anything.
Guests arrived in steady streams as the twin suns completed their descent.
Branch family patriarchs from across the Veil came first, their retinues neat and their gifts carried with the pride of people who understood that tonight mattered. Sect leaders from neighboring continents followed — bearing rare herbs and defensive jades wrapped in ceremonial silk, their expressions carrying the careful pleasantness of those who have come partly to celebrate and partly to observe. Merchant allies arrived with crates of essence stones and protective talismans that hummed faintly with layered power, their smiles wider than those of the sect leaders but their eyes no less alert. Hundreds filled the courtyard as the evening deepened, their robes a flowing sea of ruby and emerald and garnet under the chandelier light, conversations building from murmurs to a warm, sustained hum that filled the space the way music fills a hall.
Patriarch Arcturus stood on the central dais — composed, present, radiating the particular quality of a man who is exactly where he intends to be and intends to remain there. The continent-wide festival roared in the far distance, its cheers carrying faintly through the night air like evidence of a world proceeding as it should. Within the estate walls, the anticipation built steadily toward its purpose.
The Voss Clan had dressed its strength in the clothing of celebration.
And the stage for their heir — for the heaven-born child sleeping peacefully in the pavilion beyond — was finally, carefully, completely set.