The light in Elirion had changed.
Not just brighter—but more intentional.
As if the world itself had exhaled after Kaela's return to form.
And within the heart of the citadel garden, nestled between stones shaped by no hand, the Seedling pulsed.
It no longer looked like a plant.
Its tendrils had coiled inward, forming a cocoon of shimmering roots—each one pulsing with silent language. Words without tongue. Memory without time.
Darius stood before it, hands folded behind his back, silent.
Kaela watched beside him, her newly stable form calm, radiant—and marked by depth. She saw more now. Not just through time, but beneath it.
Nyx knelt just outside the circle of growth, eyes narrowed. Her instinct warred with her curiosity. She didn't trust things that chose to evolve outside of law.
But Darius did.
And the Seedling—now humming with more than life—was choosing.
The girl was perhaps eight.
