The first major crisis arrived from outside. A convoy arrived from a distant sector, one still nominally under the control of a Soladorn loyalist. They demanded their "allocated share of pure Vitae." Their trucks were fitted with the old separation pumps.
"They don't believe the change is real," Lysander said, watching from the Spire's perimeter wall. "They think we're hoarding."
Rex wanted to give them a tour, to show them the healing Font. Regina prepared a fact-sheet on the physical impossibility of meeting their demand.
Sage looked at their leader, a hard-faced woman shouting about contracts and quotas. He saw not an enemy, but a system in shock. He asked for a canteen of unified Vitae from the Spire's own well—water shimmering with intertwined light.
He walked out, alone, and offered it to her. "This is all there is now. Drink it."
She sneered. "That's contaminated. It's unstable."
"It's whole," Sage said. He took a sip himself. It was like drinking a cool, clear chord. It refreshed, invigorated, and left a faint, beautiful hum in his bones. "The old pure water is gone. This is what water is. Try it."
Wary, she took a small sip. Her eyes widened. She didn't hallucinate. She didn't combust. She felt… full. In a way rationed water never allowed.
"It's… different," she conceded, her belligerence punctured.
"Everything is," Sage said. "You can try to pump it. It will break your machines. Or you can learn how to build new ones. We have the plans."
The convoy didn't join them that day. But they left without violence, taking the canteen and a data-chip of schematics with them. The first note of the new song had been heard beyond their walls.