The valley opened before her like a wound stitched in green.
Nestled between two low ridges, it was not marked by stone or steel, but by living trees—hundreds of them—each carved with names. Not etched in grandeur, but etched in grief, in memory. Bark bore the names of the fallen. Leaves whispered stories to the wind.
Elira arrived at dusk, when the sky was stained in crimson and gold. The air here was different—quiet, reverent, heavy not with sorrow, but with remembrance. The curse stirred inside her, trembling with the weight of love and loss tangled together. This was a place Caelen would have cherished.
An old man waited beneath a willow, its trunk wide and scarred by countless names. His hands trembled, the knife in his grip worn from use. When he saw her, his breath caught.
"You're the one who walked with the Ashbound," he said, voice thin with age. "The storyteller."
Elira gave a faint nod. "I am."
He gestured to the trees. "Will you carve his name?"
Her throat tightened. She stepped forward, taking the blade from his hand. It was light—lighter than the Weeping Blade, but no less sacred in this moment.
Caelen.
The Ashbound.
She carved the letters slowly into a young sapling's bark, the cuts deep and deliberate. Each motion was a prayer. Each stroke bled meaning. When the final curve was drawn, the tree shuddered softly, its leaves rustling though there was no wind. The bark pulsed faintly, as if acknowledging the weight of the name it now bore.
The old man bowed his head.
Others gathered—women and men, children and elders, some missing limbs, others carrying small tokens of the dead. And they spoke.
One by one, they offered stories—not just of Caelen, but of their own: sons lost in the Thornfields, daughters turned Hollow, lovers who'd vanished into flame. Elira listened, her hands folded, the curse absorbing every word.
But this time, she did not sink beneath the tide.
She rose with it.
"He taught us to feel," she said, voice clear as starlight. "Even when it hurts. Especially then. Because pain means we still have hearts. And hearts… can love."
The wind stirred, gentle through the grove.
By firelight, they sang—not loud, but honest. A hymn without rhythm, a melody made of shared grief and shared hope. The trees shimmered faintly under the moon, a forest of names that would not be forgotten.
Before she left, the old man pressed something into her palm. A seedling, delicate and green, cradled in cloth and damp soil.
"Plant it somewhere new," he said. "Let his name grow."
Elira stared at the sapling, fingers closing around it.
She understood now. This wasn't just a monument. It was a movement.
Caelen's legacy was taking root—tree by tree, story by story, heart by heart.
And she would carry it forward.