The morning air was light with a hush, as if the village of Lirael had paused its breath to let grief settle and peace take root. The rain had returned to its gentle pattering, not oppressive, but constant—like a memory that refused to vanish. Ravine stood beside Arana at the edge of the spiral garden once more, the sky veiled in pale Gray.
Today, they would leave.
But not without speaking first to the one who had offered them truth.
Thalen met them at the threshold of his home, already waiting. He looked different now—less guarded, less brittle. Time, even in a single night, had softened something in him.
He invited them in.
The small room still smelled of pine and dried herbs. Arana folded herself into the corner chair while Ravine remained standing, unsure of where to place herself in a space that still felt shaped by sorrow.
Thalen offered them warm tea, and silence reigned for a while—quiet, but not uncomfortable.
Then he spoke.
"I didn't sleep much. But I dreamt. I saw her—Eryn—sitting at the garden, humming. Just like she used to."
He looked down at the cup in his hands, his voice lower now.
"You know, I used to resent the people who took her with them. The ones who spoke big dreams and planted danger like it was just another seed." He paused, his voice trembling faintly. "But I think… she would've gone anyway. With or without them. That was who she was."
He looked directly at Ravine now.
"Maelon Serre. Niva. Those were the names, weren't they? The ones who walked with her into the storm. I don't know what became of them. I don't know if they ever meant to protect her or just needed her light to lead the way. But today… I don't feel anger toward them anymore. Just… memory."
Ravine said nothing. The words rested heavily in her chest. Maelon. Niva. Names she didn't yet know how to wear, or shed.
Thalen stood, retrieving a small satchel woven from bark and sealed with a waxed thread. Inside were flower seeds—bright white and violet-blue, the kind that Eryn had favoured.
He held it out, not to Ravine, but to Arana.
"For the grave," he said. "For wherever you lay her name down. Let her be remembered with something living."
Arana accepted it with a nod, her hands cradling the pouch like something sacred.
There was nothing more to say.
When they stepped outside, the drizzle greeted them like an old companion. The village watched but didn't approach. There were no goodbyes. Just glances. Just silence.
As they passed the edge of the spiral garden one last time, Ravine let her gaze linger.
Not to seek forgiveness.
But to remember.
To remember the way the wind moved when someone like Eryn Halde laughed. To remember that even in sorrow, something could bloom.
They descended the path with no destination on their tongues—but with a new name circled on their parchment.
Niva.
A name that meant more than it said.
And ahead of them, a journey still unfolding.
Toward the next region.
Toward the next story.
Toward the truth.