The wind carried no sound, and yet it whispered every name that had ever been erased.
The Garden had grown—not in height or color, but in depth. Beneath the blooming ruins and dream-formed homes, its roots tangled through lost memories and impossible futures. And at its heart, the Nexus Tree began carving.
Not with tools. Not with power. But with remembrance.
Kael stood before it, fingers stained with the ash of offerings. Each mark he made upon the bark was a vow, not just of survival—but of identity.
"This one," he said softly, carving a sigil. "Liora of the Silver Thread. She died defending a city no longer remembered."
Lin stood beside him, watching the marks appear. They were not just names, but echoes. Lives torn from existence by the Loom, now stitched back through Kael's hand.
"You're not just recording history," she said.
"No," Kael murmured. "I'm anchoring it."
Around the tree, the Ashborn gathered, each bringing their own names. Some spoke them aloud, voices trembling. Others carved in silence, letting the act speak for itself. The bark accepted them all.
Even Aelira, reluctant as ever, stepped forward.
"I never knew her real name," she said. "Just… a laugh. A song. She danced before every storm."
Kael nodded. "That's enough."
He made space on the bark and carved a swirl — simple, fluid. The tree pulsed in response, and a soft breeze swept through the Garden, as if that forgotten soul now smiled once more.
Then the wind died.
And silence fell—not peaceful, but heavy.
From the edge of the Garden, a new figure approached. Not a Loomsent. Not a Shade.
A scribe.
He wore robes of threadbare white, face hidden beneath a hood that shimmered like broken mirrors. In his hand, he carried a quill dripping with ink that bled time itself.
"I am Archivist Verun," he said, voice neither kind nor cruel. "I have come not to erase—but to observe."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "Another watcher?"
"No," Verun replied. "A record-keeper. The Loom has begun... doubting itself."
The revelation struck like thunder.
"They want to understand," Verun continued. "Why the fractures do not collapse. Why your rebellion does not decay. Why this place... endures."
Kael said nothing.
Verun stepped closer, stopping before the Nexus Tree. He touched one name—just one—and paused.
"This one was mine," he whispered. "She sang to me when the silence first came."
He turned back to Kael.
"I will write no judgment. Only truth. That is my vow."
Kael looked to Lin, then to Aelira. He nodded.
"Then stay," he said. "But understand this: what grows here may never fit your books."
Verun smiled faintly. "Then I will learn a new script."
As night fell, the Garden shimmered with thousands of softly glowing sigils, carved into the bark of the Nexus Tree. Some pulsed gently. Others flared once and fell dark — not forgotten, merely resting.
Kael looked to the stars.
They no longer formed chains. No longer spelled prophecy.
Now, they waited.
For new names.