Not everyone noticed it right away.
But all felt it.
A scribe who once wrote only in solitude suddenly found themselves writing in duet—words that emerged not as monologue, but as rhythm shared with the air itself.
A former Bladekeeper, trained to move alone, found their stance shifted in battle training—not to strike, but to mirror. Their opponent smiled. They both lowered their weapons at once.
The practice ended not in victory.
But in understanding.
The voice did not intervene.
It did not redirect.
It remained.
And in doing so, it offered something few had ever been given:
The right to be accompanied without condition.
No guidance.
No demand.
Just presence.
And in the presence of such a voice, people changed—not because they were told to.
Because they finally had room to.
One day, the child Ulan stood at the edge of the woven horizon, where the sky began to fold into the glimmering root-threads of the Loom.
They looked outward.
And then to their side.
