The cosmos settled into an uneasy quiet.
Not peace. Peace would take generations. But the violence had stopped. The hybrid zones were stable. The traditionalist zones had sealed their borders. The suppressed realities had established their embassies.
Lord stood on the palace balcony, watching the sun set over Drak'thar. The new dragons were learning to fly, their small wings catching the evening light. The old dragons circled overhead, watchful, protective.
Owen joined him.
"You've been standing here for hours."
"I've been thinking."
"About what?"
Lord was silent for a moment.
"About what comes next."
Owen leaned against the railing. "The cosmos is reorganizing. The bridge tier is stable. The suppressed realities have a voice. That's more than we had a year ago."
"It's not enough."
"It never is."
Lord looked at his father. His gold eyes held something that hadn't been there before—a weight, a knowing.
