The camouflage was a work of art. A shared, living lie that grew stronger with each nexus they secured. The strain on Lyra had eased into a manageable rhythm, a duet of creation and concealment. For the first time since weaving the Veil, they felt not like fugitives, but like artists painting their world into the background of a vast, indifferent canvas.
Their travels took them to the Glass Plains, a desert where the sand had been fused into a single, vast sheet of obsidian by some ancient cataclysm. Beneath this black mirror, a powerful, dormant star-vein pulsed with a slow, geothermal heat. It was a crucial point to secure; its raw power was a beacon waiting to be lit.
They worked in perfect sync. Lyra’s voice wove a song of nullity over the plains, a whisper that said this is barren,
