Returning to the farm with a child born from the psychic remains of a Lich and a cosmic horror was, Ren admitted to himself, one of the stranger things he had done.
Lyra was a portrait of wary vigilance. She walked behind the boy, her senses on high alert, watching for any flicker of the darkness he was born from. Ser Kaelen, who had been summoned by a worried Lyra, was utterly baffled but deferred to Ren's judgment, as he always did.
The boy himself was quiet and observant, taking in the vibrant, chaotic beauty of Ren's farm with wide, curious eyes. The overwhelming life energy no longer pained him; his newfound balance allowed him to perceive it without being consumed by it. He introduced himself not as 'The Echo,' but with the first name that felt right to him: "Kael." It was a simple name, an echo of the knight who stood as a pillar of stability nearby.
Ren gave him a simple room in the now-expanded shack, which was more of a cozy, sprawling farmhouse. Kael's first night was a quiet one. The 'Twilight Plum' had settled his soul, and the calming aura of the farm, especially the gentle chiming of the Harmony Tree, allowed him to sleep without the nightmare of warring memories for the first time in his brief existence.
His apprenticeship began the next morning at dawn.
"The first and most important lesson," Ren said, handing Kael a small hand trowel. "Is to know your soil."
They knelt in a new, unplanted patch of earth. Ren didn't lecture. He showed. He crumbled the dark loam in his fingers, explaining its texture, its moisture, its scent. He taught Kael how to feel the life within the earth, to listen to its needs.
Kael, a being born of immense power, found the task strangely difficult. He could feel the grand energies, the flow of life and death, but the subtle, quiet language of a single handful of dirt was new to him. Ren was patient, guiding him, teaching him to quiet his cosmic senses and focus on the small, simple truths of the garden.
Their days fell into a routine. Ren would teach Kael a new task each morning. Weeding the carrot patch was a lesson in discernment—learning the difference between a valuable crop and a pest that would choke it. Watering the 'Sun's Fury' tomatoes was a lesson in nurturing—giving just enough, but not too much. Composting was a lesson in transformation—understanding that decay was not an end, but a vital part of the cycle of growth.
Kael was a strange student. He would sometimes instinctively try to use his innate power. While weeding, a stubborn thistle refused to budge, and in a flash of frustration, a flicker of Malakor's death magic emanated from him, causing the weed to wither to dust.
Ren immediately stopped him. "No," he said gently but firmly. "Don't kill it. Understand why it's a weed. Its roots are deep, they steal water from the carrots. Its thorns can hurt you when you harvest. You don't remove it because you hate it. You remove it because you love the carrots more." He then showed Kael how to use the trowel to properly dig out the entire root system. It was a lesson in purpose, not just power.
Another time, while helping to harvest 'King's Melons,' Kael tried to use the Spore-Shepherd's consumptive power to absorb a melon's essence directly, seeing it as more efficient.
Ren stopped him again. "You don't just consume the harvest," he explained. "You respect it. You share it." That evening, he had Kael help him slice the melon and share it with the villagers of Oakhaven. The boy watched as the villagers' faces lit up with joy, and he felt a flicker of the warmth that came from giving, a direct contrast to the cold satisfaction of taking that was buried in his memories.
Lyra remained a cautious observer. She saw the boy's potential for immense destruction, but she also saw Ren's patient, steady influence. She became Kael's unofficial tutor in more practical matters—how to move silently, how to be aware of his surroundings, how to control his physical form. She was teaching him the discipline he desperately needed.
One evening, a few weeks into his apprenticeship, Kael was sitting under the Celestial Grove tree, watching the star-leaves twinkle. Ren sat down beside him.
"You're learning fast," Ren said.
"There is much to learn," Kael replied, his voice still holding a quiet, formal tone. "The memories... they show me how to unmake a star. But they never showed me how to grow a bean."
"Growing a bean is much harder," Ren said with a smile. "And more important."
"Why?" Kael asked, a genuine question in his clear eyes. "Why is this more important than power? Than ruling? Than the eternal silence?"
Ren didn't answer immediately. He just looked at his farm, bathed in the gentle, multi-colored light of the Celestial Grove. "Because power fades. Rulers fall. And silence... silence is just the time between songs. But a good meal, shared with a friend... that's real. A seed that grows into food that helps someone feel happy, or healthy, or peaceful... that's a cycle that creates more good things. It's a better story than just 'The End.'"
Kael looked at Ren, then back at the farm. He thought of the taste of the 'Sunstone' bread, the sound of the villager's laughter, the quiet satisfaction of pulling a weed and knowing he was helping something better grow in its place.
"I... I think I understand," Kael said softly.
It was at that moment that the 'Seed of a Shattered Harmony'—the crystal lotus—chose to bloom. Its single, perfect note, the 'Song of Mended Worlds,' washed over the farm.
The sound, a chord of pure, healed beauty, resonated deep within Kael's soul. The last, fractured remnants of the Lich and the Spore-Shepherd, the final echoes of pain and rage and hunger that still clung to him, were not destroyed, but soothed. They were reconciled, their disharmony resolved by the beautiful, simple note.
A single, genuine tear rolled down the boy's cheek. It fell onto the grass, and from the spot where it landed, a tiny, new, unknown flower instantly sprouted, its petals a swirling grey of perfect balance.
Kael looked at the flower, then at Ren, his eyes shining with a light that was entirely his own. The last ghosts had been laid to rest. The apprentice was no longer just an echo of the past. He was a seed for a new future, planted in the richest garden in the universe.