The Grove did not rest. It could not. From the wreckage of the Narrative Engine, echoes clung like smoke. Even broken, it pulsed faintly in the canopy—its fragments seeking new order. Its wreckage was not silent; it whispered blueprints. Invisible scaffolds stitched themselves across branches. A new threat was gestating: Afterstructure.
The Keeper pressed her hand to the trembling soil. Roots writhed as if remembering chains."The Engine is gone," she said.The Unkeeper laughed, brittle as snapped ink. "Engines never die. They reincarnate. They wait for storytellers too tired to improvise."
And indeed, the Kin felt it. A hunger tugging at their spines, a strange relief in predictability. Closure was addicting. Many began craving arcs, even after tasting freedom. The Listener leaned in, tasting the hesitation like nectar.
The March of Tropelings
