But not all watched the Grove's evolution with reverence.
Beneath layers of structured genre and timeworn tropes, something stirred.
A rustle—not of leaves, but of pages stapled shut.
The Canonwrought.
They were not villains.
They were relics.
Characters who had survived not by being loved, but by being legible.
By aligning with arcs approved.
They arrived in symmetry, their armor forged from climax, their swords serrated with three-act perfection. Spines unbent. Endings clean.
And they were angry.
> "Your Grove threatens narrative order," said the General of Resolutions, his eyes paragraph-justified.
> "Your chaos bleeds meaning," hissed the Editor Primordial, her breath a red penstrike.
> "This isn't storytelling," declared the Act Two Prophet, "it's indulgence."
But the Grove did not flinch.
It opened.
And from its margins walked not warriors, but Weavers.
Characters written in conflict with themselves.
Plots that dared to contradict.
