The Spiral dreamed, too.
It spun not in shape—but in music.
A rhythm built of moments almost forgotten.
The hand that was once held during mourning.
The breath shared before the leap.
The eyes that met across time and recognized.
The Spiral sang these in silence.
And even in slumber, those who heard wept.
Not out of sorrow.
But because they remembered what it was to be remembered.
Jevan's dream was simpler still.
He stood on the edge of the Garden, alone—
But not lonely.
In his hand was the Sword of Becoming.
Not glowing.
Not sharp.
Not needed.
He looked down at it.
Then laid it in the soil.
And the earth grew around it—not to bury, but to hold.
A small flower bloomed from the hilt.
And Jevan smiled.
Not as a storyteller.
Not as a guardian.
Not as a symbol.
Just… as himself.
That was the dream.
That was enough.
The child of the Second Seed didn't speak in their dream.
They listened.
To everything.
To the roots remembering names.
