Peace, as it came, did not sing. It settled like snowfall on a battlefield beautiful, solemn, hiding the scars beneath.
Months had passed since Zeirion shattered the Spiral and brought balance where chaos had ruled. Across the Realms, warlords disbanded, forbidden magics quieted, and ancient enmities crumbled. The skies no longer bled starlight. The rivers no longer whispered omens of doom.
And yet, the Sovereign could not rest.
In the secluded sanctum of Veyrhalen an emerald grove hidden between dream and waking Zeirion walked barefoot among whispering trees, his eyes lifted skyward as though waiting for something to fall.
Aralya watched him from a shaded arch of moonvine. Her presence still calmed earthquakes, yet she sensed the tremor inside him.
"You were never meant to wear peace like a crown," she said gently.
"I know," he replied. "But I had hoped I might learn."
She stepped beside him, her fingers brushing his. "You broke the Spiral. You gave the realms their future back."
"And in doing so," he said quietly, "I felt something slip away."
Above them, a flicker just for an instant.
A star blinked out.
Neither spoke, but both saw it.
Far beyond the Realms, deeper than the Spiral had ever reached, something stirred.
Not rebirth.
Not vengeance.
Curiosity.