The garden in Elira's dream had shimmered with silver blossoms. But this one began with bare soil and bruised hands.
The ruins of the old temple stretched behind them, walls scorched by battle, earth still stained with ash. And yet, the land felt different now — like a deep breath after grief. Like the beginning of something soft.
Caelen knelt in the dirt, sweat on his brow, sleeves rolled past his elbows. He lifted the first stone with care and laid it into place — the start of a foundation, not just for a home, but for a promise.
Elira stood nearby, holding a weathered sketch from the illusion she'd dreamed. A garden, a sanctuary, a school — all places she thought she had lost. She'd lived lifetimes there, without him. And now, somehow, they were here together.
She lowered the sketch. "It won't look like the dream."
Caelen looked up, smiling softly. "No. But it'll be real."
They worked in silence for hours. Others came — villagers, travelers, even a child who had once wept at Caelen's tale in a distant inn. They didn't ask questions. They brought tools. They laid roots.
The Weeping Blade rested nearby, half-buried in soil, its glow dim but steady. Elira had asked him once, in the depths of her illusion, if pain was worth carrying. She had her answer now — not because it was easy, but because it led to this.
By sunset, the first outline of the sanctuary stood. Wooden beams. Carved stones. A path that would soon wind between gardens. Caelen stepped back and breathed in the scent of pine and tilled earth.
"Do you hear it?" he asked.
Elira tilted her head. "What?"
"The silence," he said. "But not the bad kind. The peaceful kind. The kind that waits for voices."
Elira closed her eyes. For a moment, she felt that silence — not hollow, but full of promise.
"Caelen," she said softly, opening her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me the world wasn't over?"
He stepped beside her, brushing the dirt from his hands. "Because I knew you'd wake up and make it better."
She smiled, tears welling. "You stayed."
"I always will."
Night fell, but no one left. Lanterns were lit. Meals were shared. And beneath a twilight sky, someone began to sing. Not a song of mourning — but a lullaby for the living.
Caelen watched the garden take shape beneath starlight. The dream Elira had endured in her illusion was more than grief — it had been a message. Not a prophecy. A calling.
They hadn't lost.
They had just begun.