The sky was bruised purple as the sun dipped behind the distant ruins. The trail back to the Garden was silent but heavy. Lyra walked with purpose, her steps light but unyielding, while Elliot kept glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting another shadow to rise from the broken fields.
They had seen too much.
The tower, the failed sanctum, the writings scrawled in ash and desperate ink—it had all left a weight on Elliot's chest that hadn't lifted even after they'd left it behind. What disturbed him most wasn't the monsters or the wreckage.
It was the names.
Carved into stone, faded into crumbling walls, were names written in the same pattern Lyra used when labeling plants. Some of them were names of flowers. Others were names of people.
"They tried to grow something, didn't they?" Elliot finally said, breaking the silence.
Lyra nodded without looking back. "Yes. But they forced it. They treated growth as control. Gardens don't like that."
The Garden's edge greeted them with a soft shimmer. Moss lit faintly underfoot, recognizing their steps. Lyra pressed her palm to the vine-wrapped arch, and the boundary pulsed, allowing them entry.
As they stepped inside, everything smelled warmer, sweeter. Home.
But the comfort was short-lived.
Yarro ran to them the moment they emerged. His fur was singed, and his eyes wide with urgency.
"Visitors," he barked. "Two. They crossed the outer field while you were gone."
Lyra's brow tensed. Elliot exchanged a glance with her. "What kind of visitors?"
Yarro shook his head. "Not Blight-touched. Not Withered. Walking like they knew where to go."
Lyra turned swiftly, vines tightening along her arms in instinct. Elliot's hand found his tool-sling. "Did they make it past the perimeter?"
"No," Yarro said. "They're camped. Close enough to watch."
Lyra murmured, "Then they came with intent."
They left Yarro to alert the rest while Lyra and Elliot approached the northern rise where sightlines were clearest. Nestled between two boulders, the faint flicker of a fire was just visible through the haze.
Two figures. Human. No armor, but travelers' gear. One older, slouched and silent. The other stood by the fire, sharpening a blade slowly.
Lyra squinted. Elliot saw her face shift from tension to something more thoughtful.
"You recognize them?" he asked.
She hesitated. "No. But their camp has no defenses. They expect us to come to them."
Elliot sat on a mossy rock. "So what do we do? Wait until morning?"
Lyra didn't answer. Her eyes were still fixed on the fire beyond the Garden's edge. "No. We prepare."
By morning, the intruders had not moved. The Garden had not reacted violently either, which surprised Lyra. Normally, anything foreign was repelled. But this time, it was watching.
Elliot tended the outer vines with a mix of careful pruning and humming—a tune Lyra had taught him that made the plants curl happily. He didn't know if it helped, but it made the work feel less like waiting for a storm.
When midday arrived, the figures moved.
Not toward them.
Instead, they planted something.
Lyra watched from a perch above. A seed. One she recognized.
"That seed shouldn't exist outside this place," she said slowly.
Elliot stood beside her. "What do you mean?"
She pointed. "It's a Heartseed. Grows only when the soil remembers life. Only Garden-born hands can make them."
As if on cue, the older figure turned slightly, exposing a hand gloved in green bark.
Elliot went cold. "Is that... one of us?"
Lyra stared. "No. But it may have been."
The seed sprouted by dusk. A single white stem rose, trembling under the sky. The fire was gone. So were the visitors.
All that remained was the plant.
When Elliot and Lyra approached the clearing where it grew, they found no tracks, no signs of violence, no scent of fear. Just a note pinned to the ground with a stone.
Elliot picked it up.
"You are not alone in remembering. We return when the roots reach us."
He looked at Lyra. Her face was unreadable.
"We need to go deeper," she said. "Deeper into the memory of this place."
"You mean the Garden?"
She nodded slowly.
And beneath them, unseen by either of them, the soil rippled.
Something very old had just awakened.
END OF VOLUME 2