The Council’s paralysis was a gift to the rebellion. While the architects of silence were busy scrutinizing each other, the language of resonance flourished in the world outside their chamber. The Weaver’s network grew, not with a single, explosive expansion, but with the quiet, inexorable logic of a rising tide. Small acts of art, once isolated sparks, now connected and reinforced one another, forming constellations of dissent. The Council, in its obsessive pursuit of an internal enemy, had become blind to the true nature of the threat. They were hunting a ghost while a quiet revolution bloomed in their own garden.