The garden at the center of the Loom was an island of impossible serenity. Outside, the God of Static raged, a hurricane of contradictory narratives and conceptual noise. Its form shifted constantly—one moment a dragon made of soap bubbles, the next a philosophical argument with the face of a forgotten king. It was the embodiment of a library on fire, all the books shouting their stories at once.
Inside the garden, Nox and Serian sat beneath the oak tree. They were not generating a forcefield or a weapon. They were generating a story. It flowed from them, not as words, but as a state of being. The narrative of 'Peace'. The feeling of a finished chapter, of a well-earned rest. It was a quiet, deep, and resonant hum.
