Soren's delegation trudged into the scar tissue plaza under a sky that looked bruised. Twenty-three people total, each carrying the marks of their own node's survival.
Some walked with Rigid precision, boots hitting the ground in sync. Others moved loose, eyes darting at every shifting root or flicker of light. The air smelled like wet stone and ozone.
The plaza itself was alive in the worst way. Buildings breathed. Walls expanded and contracted slowly, roots pulsing beneath cracked pavement.
Echoes—those chaotic remnants—drifted between structures like curious children who'd forgotten how to stay dead. One echo, a translucent man with half a face, waved lazily at the newcomers before dissolving into sparks.
Lara stepped forward first. She had organized the summit, turning a natural dip in the scar tissue into an amphitheater of crystal-root tiers. "Welcome," she said, voice flat but steady. "We don't do ceremonies here. Sit where you want."
