Peace is not a destination. It is a daily, grueling maintenance.
I learned this not from the ancient texts of the Moonwrights, nor from the cosmic lore of the Architects. I learned it from the squeak of leather chairs and the smell of stale coffee in the UN’s Geneva headquarters.
I sit at the head of the polished mahogany table in Conference Room 4. My left arm rests in a sleek, carbon-fiber brace—not a medical sling anymore, but a tactical support brace designed by Morgan to help me compensate for the lingering nerve damage in my shoulder. My right hand rests on a thick, leather-bound folder.
Across from me sits Director Elias Thorne.
He is not related to the late Dr. Aris Thorne, the Architect collaborator we buried in a Swiss bunker two years ago. But he shares the same sharp, preda
