Peace was a practice, not a permanent state. Seraphina had come to understand this in the months following the Convocation's founding. The Sky-Mirror Spire was no longer a fortress under siege, but something new: a clinic for the cosmos. The air, once vibrating with alarm, now hummed with the low, purposeful energy of focused healing.
In a sun-drenched chamber that served as both nursery and operations center, two-year-old Luna sat on a rug woven with starlight threads, her small hands carefully placing crystalline blocks. But she wasn't building a tower. She was, with intense concentration, mending a hairline fracture in the fabric of a doll-sized representation of the Andromeda galaxy. A faint, almost invisible crack in one of the spiral arms glowed under her touch, slowly sealing itself as she hummed a tuneless little song.
