The first rays of morning filtered through the Sanctuary's canopy, casting golden veins across the dew-laced petals of silver blooms. The air was quiet but alive, as if the garden itself held its breath, listening. In the heart of it, near the roots of the oldest tree—once a cradle of sorrow, now pulsing with light—stood Caelen.
He knelt among the flowers, his fingers gently brushing the soil that had once known only grief. It was strange, surreal, to feel the warmth of the sun again and not the weight of agony. The Weeping Blade rested across his back, silent as always, though something in its runes seemed softer now, as though even it had begun to believe in peace.
A faint rustle behind him made him turn.
Elira stepped into the clearing, her steps light yet purposeful. Her hair was braided back, her shoulders squared, but there was no mistaking the softness in her gaze when it met his. For all the pain they had carried, all the illusions she had endured, this moment was real. And for the first time, she didn't have to question it.
Caelen stood slowly. "You're up early," he said with a half-smile.
She moved to stand beside him, brushing her fingers against the same petals. "The flowers sang. I think they knew we needed today."
He looked at her. "Do they still whisper my name?"
She nodded. "But not in mourning. In memory. In reverence."
A silence settled over them—gentle, not heavy. Then Elira reached into her satchel and pulled out a small carved box. "I've been working on something. A seedling from the monument grove. I want to plant it here. Where it all began. Where it can thrive."
He took the box in his hands, reverently. "You still believe in planting roots."
"Because you reminded me why it matters," she said. "Kindness doesn't vanish. It grows, even in ashes."
Caelen knelt again, carving a small hollow in the earth. Together, they nestled the seedling in place. As Elira poured water from a flask over its roots, Caelen closed his eyes. For a moment, it felt as though the world pulsed around them—the ground humming, the air exhaling.
And then a single leaf unfolded.
Not silver.
But green.
Alive.
Elira laughed, breath catching in wonder. "It worked."
"It listened," Caelen said, awe softening his voice. "It chose life."
They sat there for a time, watching the seedling stretch upward as if pulled by invisible hands.
Eventually, Caelen spoke. "The curse is quieter now. Still present. But different. It no longer drags me under. It watches. Waits."
"That's because you changed it," Elira replied. "You made it feel. You turned sorrow into strength. And now it doesn't have to fight you. It follows you."
He looked at her then, eyes filled with something deeper than love. Devotion, perhaps. Or awe.
"You were my light, Elira. Even when I thought I was gone. Even when you believed you were alone."
She reached for his hand, squeezing it. "You never left me. Not really. You were in every step. Every story. Every child who remembered your name. But now… now I don't have to tell them as memory. I can show them."
"Then we show them," Caelen said, rising. "Together."
Just as they turned to leave the grove, a young girl stepped shyly from the trees. She had been watching silently, her eyes wide, clutching a cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms.
"I… I heard your stories," she said to Elira, her voice barely above a whisper. "And I saw the light. I followed it."
Caelen crouched down. "What's your name?"
"Sel," she answered. "My parents were lost in the dark lands. I don't feel much. But when I heard you speak… something woke up."
Elira knelt beside her. "You felt the light."
Sel nodded. "I don't want to forget again."
Caelen exchanged a look with Elira. Then he reached into his pouch and pulled out a smooth, rune-marked stone. "This was the first thing I carried when I became Ashbound. It reminded me that pain was real. And that it meant I was still alive."
He placed it in Sel's hands.
"Now you carry it," he said. "Let it remind you that feeling isn't weakness. It's your gift."
Tears welled in the girl's eyes, and she nodded fiercely.
The sun crested higher, bathing the Sanctuary in soft gold.
And as they walked down the hill together—Elira, Caelen, and Sel—it was not as saviors or warriors that they moved, but as stewards of something gentler. The world would still bruise. Darkness would still rise.
But in the heart of it all, the Sanctuary would stand.
And in it, the bonds of the kindhearted would bloom forever.