"Ah, the Unspoken Truce," began a voice, dusty as old tomes, echoing from voids unseen. "You modern folk have a way with loud silences," it continued, with a tone as satirical as a smirk on the face of Fate. Whisps from ages past floated about, invisible yet somehow present, weaving tales of pacts made under cosmic chandeliers.

"And what is it you wish to negotiate, dear inhabitants of the ephemeral?". A second voice, resonant and tinged with irony, queried from a dimensional corridor. The truth of the Unspoken Truce lay in the shadows, diplomatically absconded like a politician evading promises.

"Should we, as phantasms, impart advice on structuring these alliances amidst celestial backdrops?" the ponderous echo proffered. Stars remained silent witnesses, calculators of unfathomable depths, indifferent yet engaged.