Dawn came soft over Ashen Hollow.
The settlement stirred with quiet purpose—hammers rang from the smithy, cart wheels creaked along packed earth, and voices called morning greetings across the valley. Two weeks had passed since the Council at Stonecross, and already the southern base felt less like an outpost and more like a home.
Mira stood on the eastern ridge, journal open in her lap, watching the light spread across rooftops and tents. Her falcon circled overhead, wings catching gold as the sun cleared the horizon.
She wrote quickly, hand steady:
Day of Activation. The people feel it—something's about to change. Not battle. Not bloodshed. Something quieter, deeper. Even the beasts are restless.
Below, Feyra paced the courtyard, petals drifting in her wake. The fox's ears twitched constantly, tail low. She'd been like this since midnight—alert, listening, waiting.
Brenn emerged from the command tent, armor half-buckled, eyes scanning the gathering crowd. "Nervous?" he asked.
Mira closed her journal. "Curious. This isn't like anything we've done before."
"Neither was breaking Fort Gairn," Brenn said. "And we did that."
She smiled faintly. "This feels bigger somehow."
At the center of the courtyard, Joran knelt beside a low stone platform. On it rested dozens of palm-sized books—Bloomscript v2—each one bound in thin leather with pages that shimmered faintly even in shadow.
Thea crouched beside him, examining one of the books through a magnifying lens. "The photonic lattice is stable," she said. "Light frequency holds across the entire spectrum. No interference detected."
Joran picked up one of the books, turning it over in his scarred hands. The pages flickered with faint pulses—not quite glowing, but alive with shifting wavelengths invisible to the naked eye.
"It's strange," he muttered. "Bloomscript v1 worked through breath and rhythm—sound, vibration, something you could feel. This..." He held the book up to the light. "This works through something we can't even hear. Pure light."
Thea nodded. "Photons don't care about distance. A signal sent from here could reach Stonecross, the northern borders, even across the ocean—instantly. No delay. No degradation."
"And the limitations?" Brenn asked, joining them.
"Trust," Thea said simply. "The books only transmit to people you've already bonded with. No strangers. No interception. And the messages themselves are short—thoughts, not conversations. A few words at most. Think of it as... a whisper carried on light."
Joran grunted. "A whisper that crosses the world."
Around the platform, civilians gathered—farmers, healers, scouts, builders. Beasts sat among them: Servitors with calm eyes, Nobles standing proud, even a few unbonded creatures drawn by curiosity. Each person who'd earned a Bloomscript v2 held their palm-sized book carefully, as though it might break.
Draven arrived last, Feyra at his side. He wore no ceremonial armor, just worn leather and the faint glow of the lotus mark beneath his shirt. The Codex floated near his shoulder, pages still, waiting.
The crowd quieted.
Draven stepped onto the platform, his voice carrying without strain. "Most of you know what we're doing today. Bloomscript v2 works differently than the first. It doesn't connect through breath or rhythm. It connects through light."
He gestured to the books in people's hands.
"When you open your book and focus on someone you trust—someone you've bonded with—you can send them a thought. A warning. A question. A few words, no more. They'll receive it instantly, no matter where they are in Theia. No horns. No messengers. Just light."
A farmer raised his hand hesitantly. "What if... what if someone tries to listen in? The Dominion, the League?"
Draven met his eyes. "They can't. The light only travels between people who've chosen to trust each other. It's not a signal they can intercept—it's a bond they were never part of."
The man nodded slowly, shoulders easing.
Draven turned to Joran. "Begin the demonstration."
Joran opened his own Bloomscript v2. The pages flickered—not with written words, but with patterns of light that shifted like water. He focused, closing his eyes briefly, and thought of Thea.
Ready?
Across the courtyard, Thea's book flared. She opened it, and the same word appeared in her mind—not as sound, not as text, but as knowing. She looked up and nodded.
The crowd murmured in wonder.
Joran spoke aloud for their benefit. "I just sent her a message. She received it instantly. No one else heard it. No one else could."
He turned to a scout standing fifty paces away. "Your turn. Think of someone you trust and send them a thought."
The scout—a young woman named Lena—opened her book nervously. She focused on her partner, stationed at the northern watchtower. Her lips moved silently.
Can you hear me?
A moment later, her book flickered. A reply came, faint but clear.
I hear you. Is this real?
Lena laughed, a sound caught between wonder and disbelief. "He's at the watchtower—half a kilometer away—and I just... talked to him."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. People began opening their own books, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence.
Gary, a farmer near the back, focused on his wife working in the southern fields. The harvest cart's ready.
A heartbeat later, her reply came. On my way.
He stared at the book, then laughed. "I just saved myself a twenty-minute walk."
Nearby, Anya the healer opened her book and thought of the infirmary staff. Patient stable. No rush.
Three replies came almost simultaneously, each one a flicker of light forming words in her mind.
Understood.
Good work.
We're ready if you need us.
She closed the book, eyes shining. "This changes everything."
Across the settlement, the effect spread. Patrols coordinated silently through their books. Builders confirmed measurements without shouting. Healers checked on distant patients without leaving their posts.
Thea watched it all, tablet in hand, recording everything. "Communication efficiency up by eighty percent," she murmured. "Response time reduced to seconds. And the range..." She shook her head. "There's no limit. As long as trust exists, distance doesn't matter."
Brenn stood beside Draven, arms crossed, expression thoughtful. "It works," he said quietly. "Better than expected."
"For now," Draven replied. "But people will find ways to abuse it. Send too many messages. Rely on it too much."
"Then we teach discipline," Brenn said. "Same as everything else."
Miles to the north, a Dominion observation post watched through enchanted scopes.
Two scouts crouched behind stone, their breath misting in the cold air. One adjusted the focus, muttering under his breath. "They're coordinating without signals. No flags, no horns, no runners."
The other scout frowned. "Could be hand signals. Or pre-arranged timing."
"For an entire settlement? Simultaneously?" The first scout lowered the scope. "It's something else. Something we're not detecting."
They withdrew into the shadows, their message already drafting in coded runes: Silent coordination observed. Method unknown. Recommend continued surveillance.
Farther west, League watchers observed from a different vantage. They said nothing, only marked the coordinates and sent word back to their commanders. No dismissal. No judgment. Just quiet attention—and growing concern.
By evening, Bloomscript v2 had woven itself into daily life.
Mira stood near the infirmary, watching a healer check on a distant patient through her book. The healer's expression shifted as she received a reply, then she nodded and closed the pages.
"Patient's fever broke," the healer said aloud. "No need to send anyone tonight."
Mira wrote in her journal:
It's not magic. It's not control. It's just connection—faster, quieter, simpler than anything we've had before. I didn't think this was possible. But here it is.
Joran and Thea sat by the forge, discussing refinements. "We'll need to teach people to use it sparingly," Thea said. "If everyone tries to communicate at once, it'll become noise."
"Then we establish protocols," Joran replied. "Emergency signals. Priority messages. Keep it clean."
Brenn joined them, his voice measured. "And what happens when someone loses their book? Or when trust breaks?"
Thea's expression darkened. "If trust breaks, the link severs automatically. The books only work between people who genuinely trust each other. Fake it, and the light won't carry."
"Then that's our safeguard," Brenn said. "Truth as the only currency."
They worked late into the night, refining, adjusting, preparing for what came next.
Draven stood on the ridge with Mira, his Bloomscript v2 resting in his palm.
The valley below glowed with scattered lanterns, each one marking a home, a hearth, a life. The books flickered faintly in people's hands—brief pulses of light as messages passed between trusted souls.
"It's beautiful," Mira said softly.
Draven nodded. "It's dangerous."
She looked at him. "How?"
"Because it works," he said. "And the moment the Dominion or the League figures out how, they'll try to break it."
Mira was quiet for a moment. Then she opened her book and focused on him. Then we protect it. Together.
Draven's book flickered. He felt her message—not as words, but as certainty. He smiled faintly and replied without speaking.
Together.
Feyra padded up beside them, her petals glowing faint gold. She stopped, ears forward, staring at the ground. A faint vibration rolled through the earth—not from the books, but from somewhere deeper.
Draven felt it too. A pulse, distant and vast.
The world was listening.
And now, across all of Theia, the Covenant could speak as one.
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