The bells echoed like a heartbeat stretched too far.
Not urgent. Not hurried.
Just inevitable.
I stood.
Grin's voice followed me, low and final: "We don't have to go."
"Yes," I said, "we do."
Antic stirred behind me. "You don't have to stand for me."
"I'm not."
I turned.
"I'm standing for the forest. For the Breath. For the girl I used to be. And the one I'm becoming."
He smiled. Barely. "Then go wreck 'em."
"Save me a line in your next song."
"It's already written," he said. "It starts with 'No Eyes, all fire, no mercy.'"
I didn't trust myself to answer.
Dolly handed me a blade. It was short, curved, kissed with spellmarks.
"Just in case," she said.
"Of?"
"Anything. Everything."
Grin offered me a root charm—newly carved, still warm from his palm.
"For the truth," he said.
I tucked it behind my ear like a secret.
And then I walked.
Out of the bathhouse.
Out of safety.
Into the teeth of the story.
—
The square was full again.
But it wasn't celebration this time.
It was judgment.
The people had gathered. Cloaks, shawls, ceremonial pins. No music. No laughter. Just eyes. Hundreds of them. All watching.
The Council stood at the top of the stone dais, thirteen seats filled this time.
Elara sat in the middle, cloak thrown back, hair braided in the old style.
Orion stood beside her.
He looked steadier now.
But hollowed out.
Like a bell rung too hard.
Like he'd given something he wouldn't get back.
And he had.
He gave the Nightshade his voice. His loyalty. His future.
He was lucky he still had his soul.
Elara met my gaze and gave the smallest nod.
A signal.
I climbed the steps.
Grin and Dolly flanked me.
We didn't wait to be called.
The Council didn't stop us.
They couldn't.
The story was already turning. Their laws couldn't hold it anymore.
The oldest councilman rose. "We are gathered to name the root. To cut the rot. To decide what must be buried and what will bloom."
I stepped forward.
And said, without trembling: "The rot wasn't in one man. It was in the forgetting."
Murmurs.
I continued. "The Nightshade found Orion because he was left alone. Because grief makes easy homes for monsters. Because stories that demand strength and never offer softness will always birth ruin."
Orion flinched beside Elara.
But didn't look away.
"I don't excuse what happened," I said. "But I understand it. And understanding is not weakness. It's the first cut toward healing."
The crowd had stilled.
The wind didn't dare blow.
"Punish him if you want," I said. "But know that won't cure the rot. The rot is silence. Isolation. The belief that power must be perfect."
I turned to the people now.
"The Breath chose me because I see without seeing. Because I feel the shape of things even when they don't speak. And I'm telling you—he can still be part of this world. But only if we let him be."
There was quiet.
Then—
Elara stood.
And she spoke like the moon drawing tide: "Then let the verdict be mercy."
Shock rippled through the crowd.
The council didn't interrupt.
Because none of them had the courage to argue.
Not now.
Not when the story had already chosen its ending.
Elara turned to Orion.
He didn't fall to his knees.
He didn't weep.
He simply bowed his head. Deep. Grateful. Changed.
She touched his shoulder.
Not like a queen.
Like a girl who had loved a boy and watched him vanish and had waited too long for him to return.
And just like that—
It was done.
The rot cut.
The roots cleared.
The breath, finally, exhaled.
And somewhere in the crowd, Antic let out a low, pained whistle from where he leaned, wrapped in a blanket, against a fruit stall.
"Y'see that?" he muttered to Dolly. "My girl just talked an entire ancient council outta bloodshed."
"She's not your girl," Dolly said.
Antic smiled. "She's not yours either."
Grin chuckled softly, darkly.
And I?
I stood beneath the weight of hundreds of eyes.
And I didn't flinch.
Because they didn't see Pecola.
They didn't even see No Eyes.
They saw the Seer.
And for the first time—I let them.
Evergreena's Echoes, Beneath the Cursed Oak
The roots were holding their breath.
I felt it under my feet—tight and twitching, like the earth wanted to scream but didn't dare. The cursed oak loomed ahead of us, its bark glistening like slick blood under moonlight. Something pulsed within it. Feral. Hungry.
Antic shifted beside me.
He didn't speak.
None of us did.
Even the wind felt like it was watching.
Then she came.
Nightshade stepped through the veil of smoke, hips swaying like she thought the world belonged to her. Her hair spilled like ink, catching no light, and her smile was a blade polished in someone else's blood. She wore petals as if they were armor and bones as if they were jewelry. She didn't walk—she arrived.
"You made it," she said. Her voice coiled around us like perfume meant to drown. "I was beginning to think you'd grown boring."
I didn't answer.
Not yet.
Her eyes, molten and sharp, swept past me to Antic, to Dolly, to Grin. She didn't see enemies. She saw toys.
"You think love wins," she said, her smile stretching. "You think it changes anything."
Antic stepped forward. Rootlight curled around his ankles like it knew who he was.
"No," he said. "But it ruins tyrants."
He strummed one note.
The cursed oak screamed.
Its bark split wide like ribs cracking open. Light burst from the wound—violent and gold. Leaves peeled off in sheets of ash. The earth lurched.
I didn't wait.
My hand went to the vial at my hip—the one that reeked of clarity and revenge. I hurled it, and it hit her chest dead center. The explosion wasn't fire.
It was truth.
She staggered.
Her glamour flickered—lashes burning away, lips cracking, eyes wide with something uncharacteristic:
Fear.
Dolly darted into the chaos, skirts slicing the air like blades. She reached for the shadow behind Nightshade, her mouth brushing its edge, and whispered.
The shadow turned on its mistress.
Nightshade screamed.
Her body twisted, clawing at the darkness that now wrapped her legs, arms, throat. She cursed in a language I almost understood—something older than gods, slicker than lies.
Grin lifted both hands. His eyes were lit from inside, his mouth spilling syllables that made my stomach churn.
"You were a parasite in a story not yours," he intoned. "Return to what you were: forgotten."
His final word wasn't loud. It was just… final.
Nightshade cracked.
Not like glass. Like a mask.
And underneath—
Nothing.
The smoke of her twisted glamour unraveled into the soil. Her voice echoed once, caught in its own echo, then dissolved.
Silence.
Real this time.
No spells. No threats. Just the quiet after.
The cursed oak groaned, its roots sinking lower, looser. Like something sacred had unclenched. The Breaths above shimmered gently—soft, warm, as if the world had exhaled.
I was still shaking.
Antic reached for my hand. He didn't joke. Didn't smirk.
Just gave me his hand like it was obvious.
And I took it.
We stood there—my fingers curled against his palm, his body humming with the last of the magic—and I thought, for the first time:
We might have actually changed something.
And then…
Somewhere deeper in the forest, bells began to ring.
Evergreena's Echoes, Festival Hollow
The village had changed again.
It wasn't just the smoke cleared or the curses lifted. It was something subtler. Warped laughter echoing where there used to be screams. Children daring each other to dance over what had once been sacrificial grounds. Lovers holding hands where blood had once pooled.
The Breaths floated closer now.
Not above us. With us. Their soft flickering lights drifting just out of reach like half-forgotten dreams trying to remember themselves. The air smelled less of ash and more of rain about to fall.
Antic stood near the fountain—shirt wrinkled, hair chaotic, the tip of his flute pressed to his lips.
He played low.
Not for battle. Not for seduction.
For the children.
They gathered in uneven clusters, wild-eyed and barefoot, clapping off-beat. One boy tried to mimic the notes with a reed and failed so miserably that Antic winked and played the wrong note in solidarity.
They shrieked with laughter.
I watched from the edge of the stone path, my knees tucked beneath me, my hands covered in drying salve. There were three injured villagers in the healer's tent behind me, and I had left them sleeping beneath petals soaked in dreamroot. That should've been my concern. That should've anchored me.
But Antic glanced toward me.
And it shattered my focus.
He smiled—one of those soft, unguarded ones. The kind I used to think he only wore when no one else was watching.
He kept playing.
And something shifted in my chest.
I didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to name it. Not while the air still trembled with aftershock and the dead hadn't fully settled into their graves.
But the truth kept pressing against me.
Like music through soil.
I stood. Walked toward him slowly. He saw me, but didn't stop. Just played softer, until the last note stretched out like thread between us. Then silence.
He lowered the flute.
"You missed my debut," he said. "The children screamed. A squirrel passed out. Chaos."
"They liked you."
"I'm very likable," he said, and that crooked grin returned. "You're the difficult one."
I didn't laugh.
He noticed.
The breeze moved between us like it was trying to choose sides.
I folded my arms. "Antic…"
He blinked. His eyes sharpened, jaw ticking just barely.
No joke.
Not this time.
"I can't," I whispered. "Not right now."
His throat moved like he swallowed something bitter.
"You… can't?"
"I don't know who I am yet." My voice cracked, and I hated that. "Not really. I've been playing roles inside stories I didn't write. Seeing through everyone but myself."
He didn't speak. Not right away.
So I kept going. Because I had to.
"I need time to unravel. To stop being what people think I am. The Seer. The Null. The girl who burns. You see me like I'm someone worth touching, but I haven't earned that vision yet."
The quiet that followed was cruel.
Then Antic stepped forward.
Not urgently. Not dramatically.
Just close.
And he said, "Okay."
That's it.
Not a protest. Not a plea.
Just okay.
He looked at me like I'd hung the stars, then decided not to claim them. And somehow, he still respected the choice.
His voice softened. "If I was smart, I'd wait far away. Maybe kiss someone emotionally available. Possibly with less terrifying potions and an easier laugh."
A pause.
"But I'm not smart. And I like you anyway."
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. No words fit.
And then—
The ground trembled. A subtle quake that wasn't seismic but sacred. The air bent.
The Breaths stopped moving.
Every single one.
Then the trees parted.
And they arrived.
Queen Sentient.
The Soul Keeper.
Hand-in-hand like something out of a myth someone forgot to finish writing.
The Queen wore no crown—but no one needed reminding. Her presence moved like orchestration. A dress of woven light and shadow, and eyes rimmed with moons. Beside her, the Soul Keeper stepped barefoot on soil that didn't dare stain him. He looked young. But the kind of young you feel when something ancient forgets how to be tired.
Everyone stilled.
Even the children.
Especially the Breaths.
The Queen turned her gaze toward me. Not at me—through me. And her voice, when it came, wasn't spoken. It was heard directly in the ribs.
"You remind me of someone I couldn't save."
She was looking at Antic, too.
"And someone I chose anyway."
The Soul Keeper's hand tightened around hers.
Queen sentient
Let go of his hand.
Behind them, an entire wedding procession stepped into view. Lanterns. Incense. Petals that had no business blooming this time of year. The ceremony hadn't been delayed for war—it had waited for this moment.
For peace.
For witnesses.
I looked at Antic.
And for one terrifying second, I saw us.
Reflected in something ancient. Something defiant. Something still trying to decide if love was a gift or a reckoning.
Evergreena's Echoes, Spirit Grove
The wedding wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
The Breaths gathered close, not above this time—but around us. At eye level. Nestled in the air like fireflies too proud to touch the ground. Their glow was soft, reverent, pulsing with an ancient rhythm that felt like a heartbeat remembered.
Elara stood beneath the boughs of the old Spirit Tree, her dress simple and silver, like moonlight folded into silk. Her hair was loose now, dark coils tumbling over her shoulders like she was finally done pretending to be made of steel.
Orion wore white. No armor. No cloak. Just a tunic the color of first snow and a thread of shadow stitched through the seams—as if the forest couldn't help leaving its mark on him.
They looked at each other like no one else existed.
Like their history—the grief, the fracture, the distance—had finally been burned away, and all that remained was this: two people standing still in a world that wouldn't stop spinning.
Grin stood a little to the side, officiating. Of course.
His skeletal fingers were folded together. His face as unreadable as ever. But when he spoke, it was low, solemn, and laced with reverence.
"Two souls... burned by legacy... bound by rebellion... still chose to walk toward... not away."
He looked up, eyes bright.
"That's... what we call... a miracle."
Dolly sighed dreamily beside him, fanning herself with a lace fan that had absolutely not been enchanted to whisper compliments when it fluttered. Her dress was too tight, her lips too red, and her entire posture said gods, let someone propose to me next.
Antic leaned against a moss-covered bench, arms crossed, flute tucked into his belt. His shirt was mostly buttoned—for once—and a flower crown that he definitely didn't make himself rested crooked on his curls.
When Elara took Orion's hands, the petals started falling again.
But this time... they weren't from above.
They bloomed from the Spirit Tree. Slowly. Blossoms that shimmered gold at the edges, drifting down in lazy spirals, catching in Elara's hair and clinging to Orion's sleeves like blessings.
No priest spoke. No scroll was read.
Just two people.
Looking.
Breathing.
And saying the words we couldn't hear, but felt.
Elara leaned forward, forehead pressed to Orion's.
He whispered something only she could hear.
She laughed. For real. The kind of laugh that sounded like something finally cracked open.
And when they kissed—soft, sure, no flare of power, no magic trick—just lips and breath and the slow exhale of old wounds...
The Breaths lit up like stars.
For a moment, the entire forest looked like it had swallowed the sky.
Dolly clapped first. "Finally," she sighed. "I was beginning to think the foreplay was the plot."
Antic whistled low. "Aye. And here I thought I was dramatic."
Grin didn't smile.
But he did say, quietly—
"We did."
A pause.
"We... saved the Breaths."
And somewhere, woven between all the hearts still beating—
I believed him