Trust is not a physical structure you can compile with celestial math. It cannot be woven from shadows or forged in the heart of a dying sun. For a civilization that had spent ten thousand years waiting for the steel ceiling above them to finally collapse, stepping into the unknown required an unimaginable, terrifying leap of faith.
Orion understood this intimately. The Vanguard stood perfectly still in the center of the rusted, failing plaza. He did not rush them. He left his heavy leather Warlord coat and his legendary obsidian sword resting on the cold steel floor. He projected absolutely no authority. Instead, he reached deep into his thermal core and pushed a microscopic, gentle wave of localized warmth outward. It was the exact same life-giving frequency he had used to heal their decaying star.
Slowly, the elder of the Light-weavers separated himself from the trembling mass of survivors.
