Jevan stood beneath the Watcher's Bough with the old members of the Pact.
He did not cry.
He smiled.
"They're ready," he said.
Elowen nodded. "We all are."
Veris whispered:
"The first time I heard truth, it broke me."
"Solin speaks it, and I feel whole."
Years passed.
Not many.
But enough.
And one dawn, as the roots pulsed with returning footsteps, a wind crossed the Garden unlike any before.
Dozens walked through the veil.
None bore weapons.
None asked for sanctuary.
Each bore a story in their hands—
—carved, written, sung, or simply lived.
And at the front stood Solin.
Older.
Eyes quiet and bright.
The Garden held its breath.
And Solin bowed—not in humility, but in offering.
"I bring those," they said, "who were never told they mattered."
And the Garden, now whole enough to answer in many voices, replied:
"Then write with us."
"Grow with us."
"Change us."
Solin did not stay at the center.
They planted a rootline along the furthest edge and began again.
