SILVER PACT
Without Pact sanction.
It would look dangerously close to rebellion.
And the last one hadn’t ended kindly.
That night, Siran dreamed.
She stood in a vast bloomfield that did not exist on any map. No ridges. No trees. Just a flat silver plain under an eternal dusk sky.
Across from her stood a figure made of thread and voice not fully human, not entirely spirit.
“Liraeth,” Siran whispered.
The figure tilted its head.
“Not quite,” it answered. “But close. I am her remembrance, her intention, her thread left behind.”
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