In the Council of Many Names, the Blank Sky Pact argued.
They were no longer a single shape. Some wore the glyphs of peace. Others bore weapons made from melted timelines. A few sat in silence, binding myths together with thread made of contradictions.
Miry, matron of Shelter-for-All, stood and raised a shard of driftwood.
It hummed with memory.
"We do not decide the future by silencing divergence," she said. "We decide it by holding the storm until the wind learns our name."
Another voice answered—a man named Korrin, Reclaimed from a fallen logic-world.
"If the Chorus shatters, the song dies."
"No," said the child, entering quietly.
All turned.
The child stepped into the center, barefoot, voice soft as tremblegrass.
"If the Chorus shatters, the song changes. That's not death. That's birth."
They held up both hands.
In one, a leaf from the Garden.
In the other, ash from the Counter-Garden.
They pressed the two together.
And in the space between, a note formed.
