Three days.
For three days, Mira hung between life and death.
Elara never left her side. The healer worked with tools and magic and desperate hope, her hands steady even when her eyes were red from crying. The Heartwood's light bathed them both, seeping into Mira's wounds, knitting flesh and bone with agonizing slowness.
The rest of us waited.
Vance sat guard at the cave's entrance, his sword across his knees, his eyes scanning the horizon for threats that never came. Dorn had found a massive boulder and was methodically carving it into a memorial for the volunteers who'd fallen—Garret and the others, twelve names that would not be forgotten.
Alan, Max, and Eve had withdrawn to a nearby ridge, their voices low in constant conference. I caught fragments—"System," "gods," "center of the world"—but couldn't bring myself to ask. Not yet.
I stayed near Mira.
Not inside—Elara needed space to work—but close enough to feel her presence, to know she was still there. I sat with my back against a tree, the final Heartwood's leaves brushing my hair, and waited.
On the third night, Elara emerged.
She looked ten years older. Exhausted. But she was smiling.
"She's going to make it."
I stood so fast the world spun. "She's—"
"Awake. Confused. Asking for you." Elara's smile widened. "Go. She's ornery when she's bored."
---
Mira lay on a bed of furs and blankets, propped against the cave wall, her face pale but her eyes open. Those flat, watchful eyes that had seen so much death found me as I entered.
"Took you long enough."
I laughed—a sound I hadn't made in days. "You're impossible."
"I'm alive. Different things." She shifted, wincing. "The tree... it did something to me. I can feel it. Roots, growing inside. Not painful. Just... there."
I knelt beside her. "The Heartwood saved you."
"Then I owe it a debt." She reached out, her hand finding mine. "We both do."
For a long moment, we just sat there, her hand in mine, the cave warm with Elara's careful fires and the Heartwood's distant glow.
Then Mira's eyes sharpened. "What now? The Demon Lord's gone, but not forever. And the protagonists are talking about something big. I can feel it."
I told her. About the System. About the gods. About the final seed's true purpose—to break the chains that bound the world, to change everything.
She listened without interrupting. When I finished, she nodded slowly.
"So we go to the center of the world. Plant a tree. Fight gods." She almost smiled. "Sounds like a party."
"Mira—"
"Don't." Her grip tightened. "I didn't take that blade so you could sit here and watch me heal. I took it so you could keep going. So we could keep going." Her eyes met mine. "Party 147 doesn't quit. Remember?"
I remembered.
---
The protagonists gathered at dawn.
Alan spoke first. "The Demon Lord will return. Faster than before. He's desperate now—the Heartwood hurt him in ways nothing else has. He'll throw everything at us."
Max nodded. "My projections give us six months. Maybe less."
Eve's voice was cold. "The System is the key. Break it, and we break his connection to this world. He'll be forced back into the void, maybe forever."
"And the gods?" I asked. "What happens when they notice?"
Light appeared then—stepping from the trees as if he'd always been there, his presence warm and calm. "They'll notice eventually. But the System was their mistake. Their chains. Breaking it is... justice."
Will Pendragon landed behind him, his dragon folding massive wings. "The Five are united. We'll go with you, Gardener. To the center of the world. To the place where the gods first forged their prison."
I looked at my party. Vance, standing tall despite his wounds. Dorn, his memorial complete, his axe ready. Elara, exhausted but determined. Mira, pale but upright, her hand on her sword.
"You're all insane," I said.
Vance grinned. "Took you long enough to notice."
---
We left at noon.
The volunteers who'd survived—fewer than half—chose to stay in the mountains, to tend the garden we'd planted, to guard Mira's resting place until she was strong enough to travel. She'd argued, of course, but even she couldn't deny the wound that still pulled at her side.
"You'll come back," she said. Not a question.
"I'll come back." I touched her face, gentle. "Party 147 doesn't quit."
She almost smiled.
Then I turned and followed the Five into the east, toward the center of the world, toward the gods and the chains and the final planting.
The gardener was leaving his garden.
But he was taking its heart with him.
---