The sky above Dawnroot Glen bore an impossible purity the morning the First Concord Convocation commenced — unmarred by haze, unsullied by exiled starlight. Only the newborn beacon remained, motionless and eternal, a single unblinking eye of dawn fixed in place. If the old world still whispered in omens, this felt like a merciful one.
Still, I fastened a mirror-salt dagger to my calf before donning the indigo formal robes. Tradition dictated plain fabric — humility in the face of learning — but I allowed myself a narrow thread of dawn to be woven through the left sleeve, not as vanity, but remembrance: sincerity is not a silence but a movement of soul.
Below, the amphitheater murmured with rising breath. Demon-smiths adjusted the resonance of the floating seats, tuning them like instruments before a great symphony. Aurelian scribes laid out parchment programs on ribbon-wrapped chairs, and Custodian novices cast glyphs of starlight overhead — they drifted like banners made from breath. Even the Ash Mark rebels, silver-feathered and ink-branded, polished basalt aisles in reverent hush, softly humming the lullaby that had only days ago calmed the restless iron beneath the roots.
At the orchestra's edge stood Echo, eyes flecked with mirror dust, the fragments of her once-broken porcelain mask now fused into a crown so delicate it looked spun from frost and breath. She was to offer the ceremony's first note — one breath to bind the voices of demon, mortal, and star. Calia adjusted her collar, fingers mothering despite her youth.
Behind the dais, Ravan waited — his circlet gleamed, his robes dust-streaked from last-minute crates he refused to delegate. "A steward must sweat with the rest," he'd said. "Let no one call me emperor by distance."
I joined him beneath the oculus where warmth from the newborn star poured like golden wine. "Any word from the Consortium?"
He offered a smile carved from exhaustion. "Esmenet arrived with her delegation at dawn. No cannons. No crates." A pause. "Apparently, good faith travels light."
Relief, subtle but full. Yet my eyes wandered to the triangular alcove meant for the Aurelian throne. Empty. King Myron — no, Regent Myron, now that he ruled from behind council veils — had sent a raven bearing apology and excuse: an 'unforeseen blight upon the harvest.' But we both knew shame has many masks. Perhaps his absence was a blessing unspoken.
A staff of crystal struck basalt — Custodian Lys calling silence. Resonant chords shimmered outward, washing over the crowd, ushering hush. The apprentices entered, gray-robed and barefoot, their hems trimmed with dawn thread. They glided above the seats as if gravity itself dared not tether them. At the arena's heart, Echo stepped forward. Inhaled. Sang.
The note flowed like molten silver over silk, through columns and stone, lifting skyward into the veil-threaded dome. Beneath the soil, I felt the root iron buds stir in answer, a deep tremble like memory awakened. The forest listened.
When her voice fell to hush, I stood.
"Honored Custodians, peers of Tenebris, artisans of boundless kingdoms," I began, voice carried not by spell but by a flame of soul. "We gather not simply to open walls, but to weave will. The Loom of Aion reminds us: thread without form is mute. Only pattern grants it meaning."
I spoke of war reborn into tillage, of dawn thread's unbreaking vow, of Caelia Glassborne guarding reflection with her life, of Echo — once forged as weapon, now song incarnate. As my final word hung in the air, Ravan stepped forward, his voice dark velvet, intoning the Demon Tongue benediction: "May your knowing sharpen hearts, not blades."
The applause began as a question, then swelled into certainty. I glimpsed Esmenet's nod — and behind her, Consortium directors scribbling with reverence, not avarice. Not yet.
The Charter of Sincere Threads was unrolled — a parchment the length of a man's height laid across an altar veined with dawn thread. Between each clause glimmered ink wrought of starlight and vow: equitable harvest, transparent trade, lullaby rites made law for every root iron extraction.
Each delegation stepped forward in turn, blood quills in hand. Demon steward. Aurelian treasurer. Brina of the Ash Mark. And last, Esmenet for the Consortium — her fingers sure, her spine unbending. But just before her ink could kiss parchment, the oculus dimmed.
Light vanished — not slowly, but violently, as if yanked from the world by unseen hand. A sharp gasp rippled through the amphitheater.
I turned my eyes skyward. The moon, waxen and swollen, arrived too early, sliding across the face of the newborn star, drowning it in pale indifference. Shadows deepened. The seats trembled.
From the earth below us came a low pulse — the root iron forest stirred.
Echo staggered, clutching her chest. "The noise," she choked. At my throat, Caelia's mirror-pendant burned crimson. The reflection returned — red.
Scouts dashed in. "The seam has reopened! The roots — they're blooming again, but wrong. Not teal… violet."
Violet. The color of hunger unsated, of names not yet spoken.
Ravan's voice sliced the chaos. "Custodians to pylons. Smiths, seal the wards. Evacuate the apprentices." His authority was thunder. Esmenet clutched the charter, pale. "The lullaby — can it still calm this?"
"Sing with us," I said. "But we must reach the forest's heart."
Calia pressed spools of thread into trembling hands. "Circle the amphitheater. Weave a triptych harmony. Let it hum, no matter what."
We ran — Calia, Ravan, Brina, Vael, Lys, and I — into the depths beneath the stone. Above us, the moon turned day to tarnished pewter. Behind its edge, the red star pulsed in rhythm: one long, two short.
The tunnel had grown, its breath widened. Walls throbbed with violet light. Flowers of glass bloomed on the root iron pillars, petals spinning with nauseous beauty. At the heart — shards of mask. No sign of Valke. Swallowed.
No enemy stood before us. The danger now lived within.
The pillars leaned. Loom guardians emerged, formed of dust and desperation, dragging spectral looms to mend the cracks — but the violet blooms drained their threads. The weave was dying.
Ravan pressed his shadows to the trunk, scorched sheath slowing its tilt. Brina sliced vines, Vael danced through petals. I knelt at the base, planting dawn thread pins in the grid Caelia had whispered to me in dream. They began to hum — a hymn of memory.
Echo arrived, Calia's hand still gripping hers. Her eyes glowed like the oldest mirrors. "They speak," she said. "I can answer."
Despite our cries, she stepped forward, pressed palms to the trembling pillar. The violet bled into her crown. For a moment, it flickered. Then dulled — indigo. Teal. The pillar stilled.
But the current was too great. She wavered. I reached her side, pouring my soulfire into hers, sharing the pain. I recalled the blade that once carved her silence. I took that memory, offered it to the roots: even fear may rest.
Teal deepened. Quiet bloomed.
We moved in concert, repeating the act at each trembling root. The apprentices above continued the lullaby, threads of sound floating like balm. One by one, violet faded. The forest hushed.
The Loom guardians threaded the last of the fissures. The chamber exhaled. Peace — raw, real, and utterly earned.
The waxen moon slid aside. Light spilled down the shafts. Echo collapsed into Calia's arms, whispering, "The noise… it's gone."
Lys knelt at the central trunk, affixed the sigil of starlight. "The forest," they said, "was healed by truth made music."
Convocation resumed at dusk, the charter now signed beneath torchlight. The delegates spoke no resistance. The danger had taught them reverence. They raised their cups not to conquest, but to concord.
I stood once more, voice worn but whole. "We have learned," I said, "that a lullaby is more than a song. It is the willingness to carry another's heartbeat within our own." This time, the applause did not hesitate.
Echo sang the final note — not alone, but as triad. Caelia's voice joined hers from mirrored banners. And above, the newborn star pulsed once, in answer. A single blink. A sealed vow.
Lilacs loosed their scent across the Glen as night grew thick. I found Ravan at the amphitheater's edge, his gaze lifted to the star. We joined hands — calloused, scarred, unwavering.
"No red star," he whispered.
"Abundance restored," I answered.
"For now."
Below, the Loom throbbed, quiet and enduring. I exhaled and felt the threads — beneath the seats, within the sails, high across the heavens — tighten into a new pattern: violet petals, waxen moon, and a star that would not fade.
There was still work. The weave must go on. But tonight, the tapestry held.
And as I closed my eyes, the Loom revealed not frayed cords, but corridors of light. Children walked them, Echo among them, unafraid.
A promise, bound in sincerity, strengthened by fire. The forest slept at last.
And dawn would bloom — without hunger.