Zaya's hands worked with intuitive precision, every component of her cannon upgrade syncing not only with her element but with the Accord's newly formed network—like a gunsmith syncing weaponry to a philosophy. She muttered adjustments under her breath, re-calibrating resonance shells to vibrate at harmonics aligned with truth-telling fields, defense matrices, and empathy-triggered countershock. It was a strange kind of warcraft—designed not to dominate, but to reflect. To disrupt only when dissonance was forced.
Nero stood above the firepit, eyes on the projection node where the crest continued to pulse—six arcs surrounding that unfilled circle. The symbol hadn't just caught on; it invited. Its lack of a center was the center. An idea meant to be occupied by whoever had the courage to step forward, without precedent.
