The world beyond the Garden did not greet the Steward with wind or light.
It greeted them with questions.
The first was silence.
But it was not empty. It was waiting.
So the Steward of Becoming stepped forward, each motion weaving meaning into the undefined. With each pace, the path did not form beneath their feet—it was acknowledged. The land accepted the tread like parchment accepts ink.
Here, there were no stars.
Not yet.
Only the memory of night.
The Steward paused.
Raised a hand.
And from their scroll, still blank, drifted a single letter—not written, but formed.
A question mark.
It hovered, pulsing gently.
The land around them responded.
A hill rose, not from geological force, but from the curiosity of elevation. A tree unfurled from air, its bark etched with names no tongue had spoken, leaves shaped like forgotten answers. From the hollow of its trunk, a voice emerged—not loud, but old.
"Who walks without definition?"
The Steward bowed.
