The silence in the wake of Luna's empathic wave was no longer one of impending doom, but of profound and collective disorientation. The battlefield was frozen, not by force, but by a shared, staggering revelation. The fierce Draconians looked at the delicate Fae with a new, grudging respect. The Fae, in turn, regarded the warriors not as blunt instruments, but as beings of intense, focused loyalty. The Chronos Guard hummed quietly, processing the illogical flood of emotions they had been forced to experience.
And at the center of it all, Luna slept, exhausted, in her mother's arms. Her small, simple words had accomplished what eons of conflict and power struggles could not: a true, if fragile, ceasefire.
It was then that the light in the Sky-Mirror Spire changed once more. But this time, it was not the cold, invasive grey of the Time-Weaver, nor the warm gold of Bahamut. This light was muted, a spectrum of soft, sorrowful colors, like dawn breaking after a long and terrible night.
