Auri woke before the others. The soft hum of Amarasyl surrounded her, a quiet rhythm in the roots and air. She sat up slowly, arms wrapped around her knees, watching as mist curled over the ground like a secret. The Firelight Tree stood tall nearby, its red leaves trembling gently in the dawn breeze.
But something else stirred in her chest.
A pulse. A pull.
She rose and walked silently past the herb garden, past the shelves Talon had carved into the stone. Her bare feet whispered against the moss. She didn't know where she was going—only that something was calling.
Down the old path. The one Lyra used to take.
It wound through silver-barked trees and over fallen logs soft with moss. The forest had grown thick again, shadows curling like memory, but Auri moved as if guided. The pull grew stronger with every step, until she emerged in a clearing she hadn't visited in a long time.
It was the place where Lyra had last sung.
Where her voice had become light. Where her spirit had slipped into the roots.
Auri stood still.
There, in the middle of the clearing, was a pool—small, crystal clear, surrounded by stones smooth as sleep. The trees above formed a loose canopy, letting morning light fall in dapples. She knelt at the edge, her reflection wavering.
Her face looked different now. A little older. A little stronger. But her eyes still held the same ache.
And in that moment, she began to cry.
Not loudly. Not like storms.
Softly. Like rain falling on leaves.
She let it out—the grief, the guilt, the love that still lived inside her like a flame that refused to dim. It wasn't just about Lyra. It was about everything. Every ache she had swallowed. Every goodbye she had never spoken. Every joy that had been cut short.
Her tears dropped into the water, rippling across the surface.
Then something shimmered.
The pool began to glow faintly, not brightly, but with a warmth like candlelight. And in its center, the water curved upward, shaping itself—just for a breath—into a small cupped hand made of light.
Auri gasped.
The hand held nothing. And everything. It held silence. Grief. Hope.
Her own tears.
She reached out and touched it.
It dissolved instantly—but something warm spread through her fingers. Up her wrist. Into her chest.
Lyra's voice.
Not words, but feeling. Like the brush of wind across a cheek. Like laughter in a distant room. Like forgiveness.
Auri knelt there for a long time, her hands resting in her lap, her heart open. No longer drowning. Just holding.
When she returned to Amarasyl, Hope and Talon were waiting by the fire.
"You were gone a while," Hope said gently, handing her a cup of tea. "We worried."
"I followed her path," Auri said, voice quiet but steady. "I think she left something behind for me."
Hope tilted her head. "What did she leave?"
"Myself," Auri answered. "Or the version of me I couldn't find. The one who feels. And still chooses to stay soft."
Talon nodded. "Sometimes that's the hardest version to be."
They sat in silence for a while. The kind of silence that speaks louder than noise.
Later that day, Auri returned to the center of the glade. She dug a small hollow next to the pool she had built days ago—the one with the heart-shaped stone.
Into it, she placed a small vial filled with water from Lyra's pool. And then she whispered, "This is for all the tears I carried that weren't mine."
Hope joined her soon after, kneeling beside her, pressing her hand into the soil with hers.
And Talon, without a word, placed a tiny wooden carving into the hollow—a girl with wind-swept hair and eyes full of light.
Together, they covered it with soft earth.
And as the sky blushed into evening, the heart of Amarasyl beat stronger than ever.
It was no longer just a sanctuary.
It was becoming sacred.