Jevan stood beneath the Watcher's Bough, now ringed with new growths—branches that bore memories instead of fruit.
He closed his eyes, remembering the ache of being the first.
Then opened them, and smiled at Solin.
"You heard it clearly?"
Solin nodded.
"It's not a call," they said. "It's a continuation."
"The story doesn't need direction anymore."
"It needs movement."
And so they moved.
Not in a march.
In a drift.
Groups of twos, threes, dozens—set out from the Garden's edges.
Not to conquer.
To translate.
They didn't carry swords.
They carried fragments of the Garden's meaning—woven into cloth, sung into windchimes, etched into water-baskets.
Everywhere they went, the wind met them.
Not to guide.
To join.
Because it knew them now.
Knew they were no longer trying to be the voice of the story.
They were trying to be its echo.
Solin's path took them east, beyond the Unfinished Cliffs.
