The Council and people of Elurinda gathered on the eastern terrace of the Grand Chamber of Stars, where the city gave way to the vast, cracked expanse of earth beyond. The land stretched out in brittle silence, the kind that never invited questions. It had always been this way, as far as anyone could remember—bare, unyielding, a boundary no one crossed because there was nothing on the other side worth finding. Until now.

  Nirion stood at the front, his silhouette stark against the steady glow of the Orb behind him. He didn’t look at the wasteland stretched before him. His gaze went beyond it, to something only he could see. A place not yet real, but close enough to touch. He’d held it in his mind so long it felt more akin to a memory than a vision.

  The murmurs followed, quiet at first, like the soft shifting of leaves. Then louder, gathering strength as they spread—disbelief and wonder tangled together. A single voice broke through, clear but trembling. “Is it possible?”

  Nirion turned slowly. “Not just possible,” he said. His calmness wasn’t an answer—it was a truth. The question shrank beneath it, small and unimportant. “It’s already begun.”

  “Watch,” Nirion said, quieter now, the word almost swallowed by the silence that followed. “This is where everything changes.”

  He raised a hand—not dramatically, not in the manner of someone calling for attention, but with a quiet authority that made every sound around him fall away. The Orb followed, drifting forward, its movement smooth and deliberate, as if tethered to him by something more than will. Its hum deepened, spreading through the terrace like the vibration of a distant bell. The glow spilling from its surface shifted, light pooling in blues and golds before stretching out, thin and searching, toward the barren land.

  “You will see,” Nirion said, his voice quiet but unshakable. “The stars have given us a gift—not for ourselves, but for the world.”

  The first thread of light touched the ground. For a moment, nothing happened. The earth seemed to resist it, holding its stillness like a breath caught in the chest. Then the light began to spread, lines of brightness tracing through the dry soil. Wherever the light moved, the ground softened, darkened, came alive.

  Streams of silver-blue water traced their way through the brittle earth, carving soft curves where there had been nothing but dust and stone. The water shimmered, catching every fragment of light until it looked as if the sky itself had spilled downward. The ground darkened and softened, yielding to shoots of green that unfurled as though waking from a long sleep.

  Trees rose next, their branches stretching outward, leaves fanning open in waves. The air grew thick with the scent of sap and new growth. There was something in the way the trees moved—not rushed, not wild, but with purpose, as if they’d always known this was where they belonged.

  Flowers followed, unfurling in rapid bursts—deep purples that drank in the light, blues so deep they felt stolen from the ocean’s quiet place, reds that burned brighter than embers. They spread outward in waves, covering the valley in colors that defied what the mind could hold all at once. There was no pattern, no design that could be traced. It was life answering itself, filling the silence with something wild and beautiful.

  A sound rose from the crowd behind the Council—a gasp, rippling through the air like the first breath after a long silence. Then cheers. Laughter. Some of them wept openly, their hands pressed to their faces as though they couldn’t hold the wonder of it. Others knelt, heads bowed in prayer to gods they hadn’t spoken to in years. What had been desolation minutes ago was now a valley so lush, so alive, it felt like stepping into another world.

  As the crowd’s shouts rose and tumbled over each other, Nirion stood quietly, letting it settle inside him. The pride he felt wasn’t loud—it didn’t burn or demand. It was persistent, filling the spaces that doubt had once held. He hadn’t just changed the ground beneath their feet; he’d given them something more fragile: the belief that the unreachable wasn’t beyond reach after all.

  “My friends,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise without force, only presence. He raised his hand, gesturing toward the stretch of green and bloom, the rivers weaving new paths. “This,” he paused, as though grounding the word itself, “is only the beginning. With the Orb, we will shape wonders we’ve only whispered about. This isn’t just a dream made real—it’s the first mark of something greater. We will chart wonders beyond what we dared to dream. This is the first step toward a story written not on earth alone, but among the stars.”

  But not everyone was smiling. Avelyn stood toward the back of the Council, her arms drawn close to her sides. She wasn’t looking at the valley. Her eyes were fixed on the Orb, its glow brighter now, its hum resonating deeper, curling into the edges of her thoughts. She couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t resting so much as waiting. She didn’t know what she expected to feel, what answer she thought might come, but the unease that had crept into her chest earlier was still there, heavier now. The others didn’t seem to feel it, or if they did, they refused to show it.

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  “It is a gift,” one of the Elders said. “A sign that the heavens favor us.”

  Another Elder, younger and more eager, nodded quickly. “It changes everything,” she said. “The power to create—truly create. This isn’t just the stars blessing us. It’s... it’s legacy.”

  Avelyn’s head turned sharply toward them, but she kept her thoughts in her mouth, pressing them down until they felt sharp and small enough to swallow. Legacy, she thought bitterly. It was always legacy with them. As if they weren’t already trying to outlive themselves with every step they took.

  Avelyn’s gaze flicked toward Nirion. He stood still, his eyes on the valley, his expression as calm and measured as ever. But there was something about him now—a stillness too sharp, too deliberate. She thought of his words earlier, the way they had settled over the Council like a net, catching their doubts and binding them into silence. She wanted to ask what he saw when he looked at the valley. Pride? Relief? Or something else, something that flickered too faintly to name. But she didn’t ask. Not yet.

  The valley stretched before them now, endless in its beauty, its colors almost painful to look at. The trees that had risen moments ago stood taller now, their branches swaying in rhythms too measured to be chance. It was overwhelming, the kind of beauty that gave you the sensation of seeing something you shouldn’t, something that wasn’t meant to last. Afraid it wasn’t supposed to.

  Avelyn glanced at the others. Their faces were lit with wonder, their doubt smoothed away by what they had witnessed. Even the skeptics among them—the ones who had hesitated, who’d exchanged quiet glances in the shadows of the Council chamber—now stood taller, as though the valley’s bloom had rooted something inside them.

  She watched as one of the elders, Tiran, exhaled slowly, as if it was the first honest one he’d taken in years. He had always been wary, his sharp mind drawn to the cracks in every plan. He stood with his arms crossed. His shoulders, so often rigid, eased as though he’d been unburdened.

  Avelyn turned back to the Orb. Its glow had begun to fade, dimming as the tendrils of light pulled back into its surface. But its hum remained, deep and insistent, vibrating through the terrace like a note that hadn’t quite finished playing. It pulsed once, faintly, before falling still.

  She placed a hand on the rail to brace herself. Her fingers brushed the cool surface, grounding her, though it did nothing to quiet the feeling creeping through her ribs. She looked out again, past the gleaming valley to where the horizon softened into a faint blur of sky. A miracle, they’d called it. But miracles didn’t hum. They didn’t leave echoes in the air long after their moment had passed.

  Nirion turned to face the Council. His voice carried low but unwavering, cutting through the cheers that still echoed behind them. “This is only the beginning,” he said. “What you see here is what we can do. What the cosmos have bestowed upon us is the power to create.”

  The words settled over them. Some nodded, their awe still clinging to them. Others stayed quiet, hands clasped or loose at their sides, waiting for something more.

  “And what will it take to do so?” Avelyn’s voice came before she could stop it, cutting into the space between them. She stepped forward, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her gaze locked on Nirion. “Nothing comes from nothing.”

  Heads turned. The Council fell silent. Even those who had looked at Nirion with reverence now glanced toward Avelyn, their expressions unreadable but heavy. Nirion didn’t look away from her, didn’t blink or falter. His gaze was as resolute as his voice when he replied. “Creation has always required sacrifice,” he said. “But the stars have given us their blessing. They will provide.”

  The Council nodded, their movements slow and deliberate, as though they were afraid to disturb the moment. Avelyn didn’t move. Her eyes stayed on Nirion, on the faint, fleeting shadow that passed across his face as he spoke. It was gone in an instant, but she couldn’t unsee it.

  “And if the stars ask for more than we can give?” The words barely reached beyond the space between them, but Nirion heard. She saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, a pause too brief to catch unless you were watching closely.

  “The stars do not ask,” he said, without turning. “They guide.”

  Avelyn held his gaze for a moment longer before stepping back. She didn’t believe him. Not entirely. But the words weren’t for her—they were for the others, the ones who had already convinced themselves that this was their time, their destiny. Her silence, in their eyes, would be read as agreement, and that was enough for Nirion.

  The crowd behind them began to shift, their cheers softening into a low murmur as the moment stretched on. People moved closer to the terrace’s edge, staring out at the valley as though trying to memorize every inch of it. The Council remained still, their silence heavy with a mix of triumph and something else. Something they weren’t ready to name.

  Avelyn looked out at the valley again. It was beautiful, undeniably so. But it didn’t feel real. It felt... borrowed. Like something had been taken to make this happen, something that couldn’t be given back. She turned her gaze upward, toward the sky where the stars still glimmered faintly. They seemed farther away now, as if they were pulling back, retreating to a distance where nothing could reach them.

  And for a moment, she wished she could follow them. “The stars have always guided us,” she thought. “But now, when we need their wisdom most, they’re pulling away, leaving us here beneath this... artificial dawn.”