From her hidden vantage point, the Weaver watched the Council devour itself. She felt a grim satisfaction, not of malice, but of a plan perfectly executed. Her whispers had been the catalyst, but the Council’s own fanaticism was the fuel for the fire that now consumed them. She had not created their paranoia, merely exposed it. As they tore at each other, the language of resonance flowed unimpeded through the Arboretum, a silent, shimmering river of art. The Weaver’s loom was not a physical thing, but a network of minds, and it was weaving a new reality, thread by vibrant thread.