The silence of the Ghost’s meditation chamber was a profound, manufactured thing, a bubble of perfect stability Roewi had carved for himself within the asteroid. Here, he could listen to the symphony of his own existence, the deep, resonant bass of the Orb of Foundation, the shimmering, unpredictable melody of the Orb of Transmutation, and the harmonizing, contextual chord of the Orb of Unity, all conducted by the quiet, logical presence of Vextor. It was a balance he had fought for, a hard-won peace within the storm of his own being.
He was preparing for the confrontation with Grax, not by marshaling power, but by reinforcing his connection to the humanity he would need to wield it wisely. He focused on a simple memory: the feeling of Myra’s hand on his arm in the academy tunnels, a gest
