By the time third moonrise kissed Nightspire's obsidian towers, the orchard's first star‑salt lanterns flickered to life along the Academy's northern colonnade. Each fixture resembled a blown‑glass fruit, its rind veined with dawn‑thread filaments and seeded inside with powdered star‑salt harvested from Lys's cloak dust. A single lilac‑glass sprig anchored every globe to a living root‑iron tap so faint only Echo could hear its pulse. The result was an amber‑rose glow that neither sputtered like oil nor hummed like soul‑fire but swelled and receded as though breathing with the orchard's slow heartbeats.
Students clustered beneath the new lights in awed silence. For many, surviving winters had meant sharing one sputtering candle between five bunks; this gentle radiance felt indecently luxurious. For me it was proof of principle: that sincerity, soil, and measured star‑essence could yield sustainable glow. Yet I watched with both joy and tension. The last time we introduced a gleaming innovation, merchants had sniffed, parasites had spawned, and we had nearly sung ourselves into oblivion.
Ravan sensed my unease. He slipped from board‑meeting corridor, still smelling of fresh ink and exasperation with Aurelian accountants, and joined me beneath the lanterns. "They ask whether we can license these lights," he muttered. "I reminded them patents require trust." His voice hinted at storm, but when he looked upward the glow softened his sternness. "They are beautiful, Leora. Let's allow beauty to exist a moment before carving it into ledgers."
I nodded, forcing shoulders to loosen. Students laughed, their shadows waltzing between trunks. Echo flanked by two custodian novices tested a lantern by singing a tri‑pulse lullaby; its brightness rose, then settled gently, proving harmony not greed governed its cycle.
We were still admiring when Calia sprinted along terrace, ledger flapping. "Urgent!" she hissed, cheeks red. "A messenger hawk from Auron. Salt fog swallowed his Isles; reflections inside mist show futures where orchard burns." She thrust scroll into my hands.
Auron's tight script: Drifting haze from western sea, saturated with mirror‑particles. Mariners see visions, some leap overboard believing they walk hidden bridges. Fog drifting your way. Three days' tide. Underline twice: root‑iron resonance amplifies illusions danger to orchard and sails.
Unease crystallized. The orchard's taproots, now linked to lantern circuit, could become amplifiers if fog reached valley. We needed dispersion plan.
Ravan called emergency circle: Vael (aerial surveillance), Brina (ground cordon), Lys (cosmic survey), Echo and Caelia (reflection diagnostics), Esmenet (logistics). Within hour we assembled in amphitheater, lantern glow throwing gold on tense faces.
Lys projected starmap across seats. A crimson cloud mass drifted from western horizon, vector aligning with Glen. "Mirror fog originates near Waxen Isles crater," they explained. "Molten glass cooled on seawater, lifted as micro‑particulate mist. Laden with residual hunger frequency."
Brina cursed. "Valke's final gift."
Calia's abacus clicked. "Lantern network resonates at orchard heartbeat: safe inside valley but could synchronize with fog, turning whole Glen into prism." She met my eyes. "If illusions root, sailors will see false shores, children false stairways, forest false dawn irreversible soul fractures."
Vael suggested wind‑ward sails angled to channel fog away. Esmenet proposed constructing salt‑crystal braziers atop ridges, generating updraft of purifying ions learned from old port customs. Echo tugged sleeve, whispering: "Fog listens if lullaby sung upward, not inward. Need tall voice." She glanced at mirror‑tree.
The plan formed: combine physical updraft with sonic directive: a climactic Counter‑Chorale orchestrated from orchard canopy, anchored by mirror‑tree's resonance to broadcast across valley. Caelia could transform lantern network into safe amplifier, but spool of sincere thread must weave new cross‑link between every globe and gust‑tower.
We had forty‑eight hours.
Preparation consumed the next day. Smiths erected salt‑crystal braziers along western ridge, each bowl the size of a barrel, infused with phoenix‑ash to ignite cold flame. Dawn‑thread riggers climbed sails, adjusting angles to funnel air upward once heated. In greenhouse forge, Calia and I guided apprentices in spinning final sections of vase‑weft thin ribbons linking lantern stalks to amplifier runes carven around mirror‑tree's root halo.
During dusk break, I snatched brief audience with Caelia in reflection basin. "Lantern network safe?" I asked. The mirror‑queen examined petal lattice glimmering across water. Safe if weave remains honest, she replied. Fog whispers desires; any greed will crack amplifier. I swallowed. Greed could hide in smallest corners: a student wishing for fame, a merchant craving exclusive rights.
Echo joined, listening. She suggested we gather entire Academy for vow under mirror‑tree before activation, each attendee offering single sincere memory as tithe. Caelia approved. Mass sincerity would anchor weave.
Ravan rallied crowd at midnight. Torches quenched, only lanterns pulsed. He spoke not as emperor but as companion traveler: "Each of us holds one memory worth any hunger's bait. Tonight we gift a copy of it to the loom so illusions cannot trade it away." One by one, people laid memories into dawn‑thread ribbons wound round tree: glimpses of mothers' lullabies, victories over fever, first taste of ember bread. I pressed recollection of scaffold‑blade dread yes, again, but now robed in gratitude, no longer trauma. Echo wove them, singing, and ribbons glowed.
Lantern stems brightened; runes warmed; cauldron braziers on ridge ignited with azure flame.
Fog arrived at dawn on schedule: a wall of shimmering silver tinted faint crimson, sliding along river valley like silk drawn across glass. It met hot salt updraft, boiled upward. But mid‑sky swirl, illusions blossomed: phantom palaces, star‑gates, staircases to cloud gardens. Vision tempted watchers: a student reached skyward, eyes glassy. Echo's song soared, tri‑pulse plus new overlay of orchard heartbeat. Lantern network Throbbed, projecting chorus outward: illusions dissolved into harmless prisms raining gentle sparks. Fog lost coherence, parted around valley like tide split by unseen prow.
I sensed hunger hush. Mirror‑tree's rings dimmed, satisfied. Lanterns settled to steady glow.
When last fog filament drifted east, valley exhaled. Cheering erupted along ridges. Lys confirmed cosmic vectors stilled: no red threads trailing.
But work remained: salvage drifting particles for study, treat canal waters now laced with mirror dust. Esmenet coordinated barges of salt‑flocculants; Vael's legion monitored stray illusions.
At sunset we convened orchard clearing once more, not for crisis but celebration. Echo presented small glass fruit shaped like lantern globe; inside floated spark of converted fog dust now neutral. She gifted it to Ravan and me. "For library," she said shyly. "Memory of day hunger chose to glow, not bite."
I tucked fruit into satchel beside spool seeds. The Loom's hum in my bones vibrated content. Yet I felt edge of question: what next? We had answered greed with sincerity, hunger with lullaby, illusion with clarity. Would loom now weave restful chapters?
I doubted peace could become permanent coil threads live, threads rub, friction sparks. But orchard lights taught me truth: we need not hoard flame; guiding it wisely made warmth for all.
That night, I sat atop amphitheater's highest seat, feet dangling above moon‑grass sea. Ravan joined with star‑salt tea. We sipped in silence until he spoke: "The loom will ask again."
"Yes," I answered. "And we will answer together, with many voices."
Below, lanterns pulsed; above, newborn star flickered triple greeting. No red echo followed.
I closed eyes, listening to orchard breathe, sails rustle, far ridges hush. The shuttle hovered in mind, ready. Tomorrow we would draft trade guidelines for lantern export. Tonight, tapestry threaded calm a moment's stillness in loom's endless song and I let it cradle weary heart until dawn painted sky with promise again.