It started in a school.
A teacher gathered students in a circle and handed them blank scrolls. No symbols. No headings. Just parchment, waiting.
"We're writing today," she said. "But not history. Not prophecy. Just what we want the world to become."
Sera Vex stood in the back—invited, not revered. Someone had asked her to witness, not lead. And that was enough.
One by one, children began:
"Justice means everyone gets heard, even the quiet ones."
"Let power be like soil. It helps us grow, not tells us how."
"No one should need fire to feel safe."
These weren't slogans.
They were seeds.
Outside the school, adults joined. Pages collected into a living wall—no author named, no creed declared. The Whisper Parliament's former hall now stood open, its doors repainted with handprints.
And on the first plaque of this new beginning, etched not in gold, but wood charred from old statues:
"This is not a doctrine. It's a conversation."
Sera approached the wall. She held the final page of Caelum's journal. Then—quietly—she placed it in a sealed box at the center of the circle. Not to erase it. Not to glorify it.
Just to say:
"Here. This is how it began. Let's make sure we never start that way again."
The devil watched from the rooftop above, eating an apple she conjured from metaphor.
"Fascinating," she whispered. "When myth dies gently, truth doesn't need to scream."
Sera turned her back to the sky.
And in that moment, for the first time in generations, the city didn't remember in worship.
It remembered in wisdom.