The silence that followed was not absence.
It was recalibration.
The chamber did not dim, nor did it return to its previous stillness. Instead, everything seemed to settle into a new baseline—like a breath held too long finally released, but not forgotten.
West felt it most clearly.
The Stillroot no longer pulsed in bursts or flares. It threaded through him now in a steady, lucid current, no longer trying to overwhelm or prove itself. It had found its place—not as an intrusion, but as a participant.
And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
Because participation implied expectation.
"You're thinking too loudly again," Sun said, dropping down onto a ridge of ice that had reshaped itself into something almost resembling a seat. "I can practically hear your existential crisis from here."
West huffed a quiet laugh. "Not a crisis."
"Mm," Sun replied, unconvinced. "Just the weight of reality restructuring itself around your decisions. Totally normal."
