The Hall of Concord stood empty, a cavern of marble and silence. Once, it had roared with the voices of chancellors, sages, and poets. Now only dust danced in the shafts of dying sunlight that pierced through fractured stained glass.

At the heart of the hall stood Miren, the last Orator.

She wore her ceremonial cloak—a threadbare relic of a forgotten time—deep blue with silver hems, patterned like waves crashing over stone. Her hands trembled as she placed the Scroll of Accord upon the pedestal. The scroll crackled with age, the ink faded like ghost stories.

Behind her stood an assembly of a hundred. Governors. Warlords. Rebels. Survivors.

None of them listened.

They murmured to each other, eyes glazed with disinterest or calculation. Some scrolled through flickering digital tablets. Others sharpened knives not metaphorically.

But Miren, proud and foolish, still believed in the power of words.

She cleared her throat.

“I speak not for power, nor for vengeance. I speak for peace. For remembrance. For those who cannot stand here today.”

No one hushed. A few turned their heads, just enough to appear courteous.

Miren lifted the scroll and began to read the Oath of Unity—a pledge written by the founders centuries ago after the Last Fracture. Words meant to bind warring factions, to remind them that survival was not a contest, but a covenant.

She poured everything into her voice: the weight of loss, the ache of hope, the tremble of prophecy. Her words echoed in the chamber, resounding off the dome with the beauty of something ancient and true.

But it changed nothing.

A general whispered to his adjutant. A rebel yawned, deliberately loud. Someone snorted and muttered, “Another speech for the graveyard.”

Her throat tightened.

And then, with solemn grace, Miren closed the scroll. She looked up at the assembly with eyes as still as the marble beneath her feet.

“Words,” she said softly, “are wasted on those who do not listen.”

The air shifted.

Some scoffed. Some rolled their eyes. But one man, far in the back—a boy, really, no older than twenty—lowered his hood. His face was streaked with ash and tears. He met her gaze and nodded once.

Only one.

It was enough.

Miren stepped back from the pedestal. From her sleeve, she drew a small obsidian disc. The failsafe.

For years, the Hall of Concord had been wired—not for destruction, but for revelation.

“Let the truth speak louder than any voice,” she whispered, pressing the disc.

A low hum thrummed through the walls. Light burst from the dome. Holographic images surrounded the assembly—millions of faces, flickering memories of those who had perished in the wars. Civilians. Children. Forgotten heroes.

Their voices rose—fragments of their last messages. Screams. Pleas. Lullabies.

The murmuring stopped.

Now, finally, they listened.

Some fell to their knees. Others wept openly. And in the stunned hush, the marble echoed again—not with words, but with understanding.

Only then did Miren let herself cry.

Not because she had saved them.

But because it took ghosts to be heard.