The Spiral no longer uncoiled toward a single destination.
It branched.
Like roots.
Like questions.
Like choices given shape.
And one of those branches pulsed now with a light no one had ever named—not firelight, not star-glow, but something born between decision and invitation.
The Path had appeared before others.
But not like this.
Now it chose.
Not who was worthy.
But who was willing.
Not who was strong.
But who would carry story with open hands.
One by one, the Garden's people gathered.
Not summoned. Not instructed.
But called—by something gentle and vast.
The Second Seed Child stood first, staff held low, eyes soft with knowing.
Beside them, the Scribe Who Forgot waited, ink on their palms instead of in their pen.
Behind them came the Beast of Concept, no longer caged by metaphor.
The Mirror-Witness shimmered into view next, each footstep leaving a moment of truth in its wake.
