The camp breathed as if alive—charged not with fear, but purpose. Around the fire, hands moved without instruction, minds aligned by mutual clarity rather than hierarchy. Zaya adjusted her cannon's harmonics again, syncing it to the updated cadence in the leyline pulse. Nearby, the twins—still silent—were weaving an interlocking net of translation glyphs, meant to convert intention into legible syntax, removing the chance for misinterpretation. An entire diplomatic language was being born on the forest floor, without a single scribe decreeing it.
Nero's resonance loop held steady, its hum now harmonizing with the Accord's signal—an invisible perimeter that didn't just defend, but reflected. Hostility would not be met with violence, but with illumination. If they attacked, their own shadows would be returned to them.
