Lys wandered again.
But this time, not in search of arrival.
She had become a message-bearer—carrying fragments from one weaver-circle to the next. Sometimes a melody, sometimes a ritual, sometimes a single word: Remember.
She crossed great chasms made from unanswered prayers.
She bathed in rivers made of myth not yet believed.
And in every step, she carried one truth:
That tomorrow did not need consensus.
Only contact.
Elowen wrote less now.
But what she wrote lived longer.
A single poem she etched into the bark of a sleeping tree spread across a continent—not physically, but emotionally. Anyone who stood beneath a tree could feel the lines, even if they couldn't read them.
The poem ended with:
We are threads without spindles,
stories without shepherds,
walking each other home.
Jevan stood before a chorus of strangers, in a place without borders, where dozens of weaver-circles had converged.
He carried no staff.
No sword.
Only the Atlas, now thinner than before.
