The garden wasn't sacred. Not anymore.
What was once a circle of blessing and song had curdled into a trap—a nest of coiled roots and broken spirit wards, pulsing with memory that didn't want to let go. Nightingale's uniform buzzed against her skin, its protective hum faltering, like a lullaby fighting static.
The blurs were resisting. Not out of malice, but confusion. They didn't want to be saved. They didn't even know they could be.
The roots sensed her moment of hesitation—and struck.
Thick tendrils snapped up from the ground and lashed across her chest and side, slicing through her ceremonial nanny uniform like paper. Runes flickered, stitching half-held spells before burning out. She was yanked from her stance, falling backward toward a pit of thorned rot the garden had hidden just beneath the surface.
But Nightingale never fell without a plan.
Mid-air, as wind tore past her and her body flipped through cursed foliage, she whispered an activation phrase under her breath.
The torn uniform unraveled into glowing threads that slithered over her skin like ink soaked in memory, stitching themselves into something new—something meaner. A gardener's uniform, but not the kind you wear to tend roses. This was stitched in deep green canvas hard enough to turn knives, thornproof seams like stitched steel, copper buttons etched with glyphs that looked like they whispered when the wind hit 'em right.
Around her waist hung a belt loaded with trouble—enchanted pruning shears that hummed like broken neon, seed bombs packed with alchemical spite, and a spade sharp enough to bury secrets. It wasn't just a transformation. It was a uniform made for digging out the dead truth, root by bitter root.
The garden didn't know it yet, but it had just picked a fight with a woman dressed for extraction.
She landed not with a crash, but a blooming thud—right on top of one of the thicker roots, which shuddered beneath her boots like it knew what was coming. She twisted her wrist, and the enchanted pruning shears at her belt shifted shape—metal lengthening, teeth forming, the gentle buzz morphing into a snarling growl.
The chainsaw roared to life in her grip.
"This is gonna hurt," she said aloud, voice sharp as the chainsaw's teeth. "A lot."
She stood tall in her gardenkeeper attire, gloves now lined with thorn sigils and her boots rooted in their own defiance. This wasn't a nanny anymore. This was a weed-puller of divine wrath.
And wrath she brought.
She revved the chainsaw and hacked through the roots with vicious precision. Each cut echoed like a scream in a church. The roots wailed, spraying sap-black ichor that sizzled on contact. With every severed limb, the ground shook, and the blurs began to cry—thin, high-pitched wails that weren't quite human but still unmistakably childlike.
It was brutal work. Roots thrashed under her, thorns clawed at her legs, but she kept carving forward, eyes burning, her mouth tight with resolve. Her garden uniform was splattered with wet grief and something older—something that had once been prayer.
She didn't stop until a new sound cut through the chaos: a single voice.
"Miss?"
Nightingale paused, breath ragged.
From the smoke and flicker, one of the blurs—taller, older—stepped forward. It shook with effort, holding its shape like a memory pulled from ruin. Its voice trembled.
"We'll stop. We'll do what you want. Just… stop hurting the roots."
She smiled—soft and wolfish—and with a snap of her fingers, the world around her shifted. Hedge walls curled into velvet curtains, tar-stained ground shimmered into sawdust. A circus unfolded around her: striped tents, soft lights, chiming music. As the illusion snapped into place, her gardener's uniform unraveled and spun around her form in ribbons of gold and burgundy. When it settled, she stood tall in a ringmaster's coat with brass epaulettes, a velvet waistcoat, and a top hat lit with a flickering rune flame. Her boots gleamed like applause.
She tipped her hat with a wink, then gave a twirl that sent a shimmer of glittering magic trailing behind her coat. With a snap of her fingers, a carousel appeared in the distance, softly spinning with spectral horses made of cotton candy and fog.
"Call the others," she said to the blur. "I was sent here to take you somewhere fun."
The older blur hesitated, but when a cone of popcorn floated up and plopped into their flickering hands, they blinked and turned back toward the others, whispering. One by one, the blurs drifted forward, drawn by the promise of sweetness and sound.
Nightingale dipped into her coat pocket and pulled out tiny, floating bags of glowing jelly beans, each one singing a different silly tune. "Sour suns, fizzy moons, and giggle grapes," she offered with a dramatic bow.
The blurs squealed in delight.
But a smaller one tugged at her dress, wide-eyed and wary. "Are you one of the bad guys? Are you gonna keep cutting our roots?"
Nightingale knelt, took the child's hand. "These roots were never yours to begin with," she said gently. "And no, I'm not a bad guy this time. I'm the ringmaster, and I'm here to show you a fun time."
She cast a spell with her free hand. Illusions bloomed: tightrope dancers in the sky, candy clouds, calliope laughter. The blurs gasped and ran toward it all, shadows shedding sorrow like old coats.
What they didn't see—couldn't feel—was the truth underneath. The illusion burned bright, and from within it, green fire spread across the real garden, devouring the last of the cursed roots. The ground split open in places. Ash rose like confetti. But the blurs only saw the carousel spinning and the popcorn popping in midair.
Later, after the games and the joy, she took the hands of two smaller blurs and led them through a corridor of twinkling lights. The circus smiled around them, dazzling in all its impossible color. She turned and beckoned the rest to follow, her voice rising like a stage call—"Come now, little stars! I have wonders left to show you!"
The blurs followed eagerly, skipping and giggling through the illusion. But behind their laughter, the truth devoured the land. The house—once a haven of lies—was finally burning. Not with ordinary fire, but with flames of green, hissing and bitter. The color of greed. The color of sacrifice made in vain.
The blurs never saw it. The illusion held strong.
The truth.
Parents sat in the backs of cop cars, wrists cuffed, faces blank or twitching with guilt. Charges pending. Sacrifice not honored. Just a scam. The kids had died for nothing—except greed.
One parent cried. Really cried, seeing their child's final blur form shimmer for the last time. Others just looked away.
Outside the crime tape, police took statements beneath flickering yellow lights. The scene was chaos wrapped in sorrow—body bags zipped half-closed, small shapes covered in school uniforms and blankets. Crying parents of classmates stood off to the side, clutching each other, sobbing into jackets and scarves. Some children from the victims' school had been brought to identify belongings, only to be shielded away by grief-shattered adults. News anchors spoke in hushed voices, their lenses catching tears and disbelief in equal measure. The air smelled like wilted flowers and burnt sugar.
But to the blurs walking past in illusion, it was a parade.
People waved, offered sweets and toys. Applause rang out. Nightingale danced at the front, singing softly, tossing glittered candy into the air. Her voice carried like cotton candy on breeze.
She had made sure they all looked lovely—new clothes, bright shoes, shining hair. The blurs didn't know they were being carried through mourning. They saw celebration.
Nightingale kept the illusion alive. She had to. These children weren't just memories—they were possibilities. In time, they would go to the Guest, who'd guide them through what came next. Some would be offered a second chance—new life, new shape. To become Sonsters, joining houses that brought glory across realms. And most of them would say yes. They always did.
Others might choose rebirth instead, into new planets or dream realms of their choosing—free to live again, differently. The Guest made sure of that. The path forward was theirs to decide.
But now and then, one would walk a different path. Hasher. Sonter. Rare, but not impossible. It was a choice. Always a choice. That's the life of a Sonster—shaped by freedom, sealed by will.
And Nightingale made sure they made it with peace in their hearts—not fear.
She led the children to what looked like a grand mansion—gold-trimmed, dream-lit, sparkling with make-believe charm. But in reality, it was just a tent. A plain canvas tent, staked to dry earth. Inside, a long table stood, lined with dolls, still and silent.
"Room for all of you," she said, voice warm, before twirling into a happy little dance—her boots tapping against the dusty tent floor, coat spinning with a whisper of glitter. "I know it's tough," she said, clapping her hands gently, "but it's time for sleep."
One by one, she moved down the table, laying her hands over each doll with care. For every blur, a different lullaby slipped from her lips—some were sweet and old, others nonsense jingles spun from their own memories. Her voice shifted tones, languages, and rhythm with each child.
She sang them to sleep like a carnival ghost-mother, tucking each soul into its spellbound casing with the soft finality of a bedtime story's end.
Inside were wonders tailored to each child's joy. Colors. Comfort. Love. But beneath it all: containment spells. Each blur gently drawn into a specialty-made doll. Locked. Preserved. Safe.
And behind it all, an electric fence pulsed, humming like a warning bell to gods and ghosts alike. Nightingale stepped out of the tent, the illusion slipping from her shoulders like a curtain falling. Her circus coat unraveled into soft gray sweats, boots traded for worn slippers. She rubbed her eyes, sighed, and flipped the switch on the junction post. The fence surged to full power, sealing the dolls safely inside—quiet, contained, untouched by the world for now.