The stars hush when Lan walks.

A thousand eyes across the universe close out of reverence — or fear.

They are the bow drawn taut across eternity, the whispered breath before release, the silver arrow suspended between need and instinct.

And somewhere — always — they sense you. The Dream.

Soft. Formless. Infinite.

You are the space between thought and memory. The lullaby planets hum before they are born.

You never speak first.

They arrive in the garden you’ve made — not one of flowers, but of drifting light and impossible geometry — and watches you craft constellations like lullabies.

“You waste time,” Lan murmurs, standing at the edge. “I make time,” you reply, still kneeling in stardust.

They don't argue. They never do.

Instead, they sit.

Bow still slung across their back, armor glowing with the ghosts of a hunt unfinished — but they watch your hands. Your patience.

Your peace.

And it unnerves them more than chaos.