The Verdant Hollow shimmered under the golden blaze of a midsummer noon, its clearing a lush tapestry of tall grasses and wildflowers, their petals radiant—crimson flamehearts blazing like embers, indigo duskcaps swaying like twilight bells, amber glowseeds scattering pollen that sparkled like stardust in the sunlight. Bare earth patches gleamed near the stream, their dark soil warm and fragrant, etched with the tracks of foxes and the deeper ruts of wagon wheels, baked firm by the sun. The air was thick with the sweet perfume of blossoms, woven with the earthy tang of sun-warmed soil and the sharp, resinous scent of cedar logs stacked near the forge, their surfaces glistening with sap, their rings tight from years of growth.
The heart-tree's stump stood as an enduring pillar, its blackened core now draped in vibrant vines, their leaves broad and glossy, heavy with ripe red berries, their glossy surfaces catching the sun, glowing like polished garnets. The berries' tart aroma swirled through the air, blending with the smoky warmth of a firepit where logs burned low, their embers casting a soft haze across the clearing, and the savory scent of soup simmering in a cauldron, its steam rich with peas, leeks, and dill, stirred by a wooden spoon.
A wide table stretched beneath a canopy of woven reed mats, its wood weathered to a deep honey hue, etched with swirling waves carved by Nyssa, now laden with summer's bounty: clay bowls brimming with ripe tomatoes, their red skins taut; baskets of blackberries, their dark surfaces dusted with dew; slabs of smoked salmon, their orange flesh glistening; and loaves of rye bread, their crusts thick, studded with fennel seeds, still warm from Veyra's oven. Wooden tankards held elderflower cordial, its sweet steam rising, cooling hands that gripped them, fingers stained with berry juice, nails flecked with soil from morning weeding.
The stream danced brightly, its water clear and cool, rushing over pebbles polished to a sheen, their surfaces flecked with mica that flashed in the noon light. Reeds stood tall, their green shoots thick, tied with fresh ribbons—crimson, violet, indigo—knotted by Kael and Nyssa, their colors vivid, swaying like flags of a thriving season. Saplings ringed the clearing, their branches laden with broad leaves, their blossoms fading into tiny fruits, their bark warm under hands that brushed them, a promise of harvests to come.
Sparrows flitted through the pines, their wings flashing brown and gold, their chirps a lively chorus, blending with the fire's crackle and the rhythmic clank of a hammer from the forge, where sparks flew, shaping iron into scythes for summer's harvest. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of flowers, woodsmoke, and the faint musk of linen tunics draped over benches, their fibers soft with sweat. The Hollow thrummed with life, its pulse steady in the hum of voices, the laughter of children splashing in the stream, and the thud of hoes breaking soil, a community knit by shared tides and shared dreams.
Kaelith Varn stood by the cauldron, stirring soup, her wooden spoon swirling through green peas and leeks, steam rising in fragrant clouds, cooling her face, her fingers gripping the handle, calluses brushing smooth wood. Her tunic was a light sage, thin linen laced with cord, its collar embroidered with ferns, hugging a frame lean but strong, scars on her hands faded to silver threads, like veins in a leaf. The shard at her belt was a quiet relic, its crystal catching the fire's glow, throwing prisms of blue and gold across her hip, a badge of courage, not weight. Her dark hair was loose, tied back with a leather cord, a few strands clinging to her cheek, flushed from the heat, her gray eyes bright, sparkling with a warmth that matched the sun, her smile soft, like she'd found a home in the noon. She hummed a summer song, her breath carrying the scent of dill, her heart a steady ember, stirred by Rhydian's gaze across the fire, his smirk igniting a spark she couldn't ignore.
Torren Ashkarn stood by the forge, shaping a scythe, his hammer striking iron with a clang that echoed, sparks flying like fireflies, searing the air before fading into the grass. His tunic was a deep ochre, patched at the shoulders, rolled to show arms thick with muscle, scars crisscrossing like rivers, faded but proud. His hands were steady, gripping the hammer with a smith's precision, sweat beading on his brow, his face flushed, lit by the forge's glow, his dark eyes warm, catching Sylvara's laugh, lingering with a grin that softened his jaw, like her voice was a flame he couldn't quench. His hair was cropped, curling at the neck, his beard faint, making him look younger, untouched by the Waste. He sang a forge ballad, rough and low, his voice a rumble, his laugh deep when Nyssa tossed a twig, like he was forging the Hollow's tides.
Sylvara Ren sat on a bench, braiding a rope from flax, her fingers twisting fibers into tight cords, their earthy scent clinging to her skin, her hands steady, stained with pollen. Her tunic was a vibrant turquoise, embroidered with waves, its hem dusted with dirt, swaying as she leaned, her auburn braid swinging, tied with a teal ribbon, strands glinting like copper in the sun. Her arms were freckled, smooth, her smile wide, like the Hollow was blooming in her chest. Her green eyes sparkled, grief a forgotten shadow, her laugh sharp, cutting through the chatter, blending with the stream's song. She sang a weaving tune, her voice clear, soaring like a hawk, calling the earth to thrive. The air pulsed, alive with her rhythm, and she brushed dirt from her nose, her heart a wildfire, her gaze flicking to Torren, her cheeks flushing, a thrill in her pulse, like his hammer was beating for her.
Rhydian Thalor leaned against a sapling, carving a fishhook, his knife shaping bone with precise cuts, shavings curling like petals at his feet, his fingers deft, stained with sap. His vest was a deep navy, paired with a shirt loose and bright, sleeves rolled to show forearms lean and scarred, tanned by summer's light, muscles flexing as he carved. His blue eyes glinted, catching Kaelith's hum, his smirk curling, like he was reading her heart. His dagger was sheathed, his hands busy with creation, not conflict. His face was full, stubble faint, his grin wide, whistling a sea shanty, his voice bright, like a sailor calling shore, his laugh sharp when Kael splashed in the stream, like he was carving the Hollow's joy. His gaze lingered on Kaelith, watching her stir, his smirk softening, a warmth in his chest, like her smile was a tide pulling him closer.
Lila darted through the grass, her tunic a vivid coral, patched with shells, flapping as she chased Nyssa, their giggles a bright duet that danced with the fire's crackle, their boots splashing in mud. Her brown hair flew, a ribbon slipping, her cheeks pink, her eyes wide, like the Hollow was a puzzle she'd never solve. She clutched a handful of blackberries, juice staining her fingers, her grin fearless, like summer was a game she'd win. Her voice was loud, shouting rules for a splash fight, her laughter sharp, making adults pause, like she was the Hollow's spark.
Mara sat on a blanket, mending Sana's tunic, the toddler giggling, her tiny hands clutching a duskcap flower, its petals soft against her skin. Mara's shawl was a deep violet, soft, slipping off her shoulders, her dark hair loose, catching the sun, her face warm, her eyes soft as she watched Thom carve a beam, his hands steady, his limp gone. Eli hauled kindling, his tunic muddy, his brown hair wild, his laugh quick, echoing Kian's, his hands eager, learning Thom's craft. Their cabin stood warm, joined by tents, lean-tos, sheds, a barn, a forge, a weaving shed, a smokehouse, a tannery, a granary, a dye shed, and a new pottery shed, logs glowing in the noon, a village thriving.
Eryn and Lora sorted blackberries by the table, their hands quick, tossing stems to a piglet, their tunics bright—Eryn's teal, Lora's orange—swaying as they worked. Eryn's gray hair was tied back, her face lined but glowing, her voice low, humming a tune, her eyes flicking to Cal, who carved a spoon, his beard white, his tunic loose. Lora's hair was silver-streaked, her eyes sharp, her laugh clear, joining Eryn's song, her hands steady, like she was sorting the Hollow's warmth. Cal's voice was creaky, warm, calling a jest to Orin, his hands sure, like he was carving for seasons ahead.
Gavyn and Orin hauled logs to the pottery shed, their shirts damp, their grins wide, tossing wood with a rhythm like a drum. Tira stood nearby, fletching arrows, her tunic sage, her short hair tucked back, her eyes focused, her voice sharp, teasing Orin's stack, her smile quick, like she was aiming for joy. Their tent stood firm, canvas bright, beside Soren's lean-to, Dren's cart, Ysmeine's wagon, Torv's shed, Myra's barn, Sigrid's lean-to, Drenvar's cart, Vira's tent, and Elara's wagon, a home rooted deep.
Veyra knelt by the orchard, harvesting plums, her gray curls loose, her tunic patched but vibrant, her hands steady, her laugh warm, like a mother's call. Orin paused, wiping sweat, his cane forgotten, his face flushed, his voice rough, joining her laugh, like he was harvesting for life. Nia wove a mat, her red hair braided, her voice soft, humming Sylvara's tune, her smile shy, like she was crafting the Hollow's soul.
Soren fired pots in a kiln, her shawl slipping, her face warm, her eyes soft as she watched Kian wrestle Miro, his tunic dusty, his blond hair wild, his laugh loud, like he'd claimed his place. Tarn sat nearby, playing his flute, its notes soft, his beard gray, his voice creaky, telling Nyssa a tale, his hands steady, like he was piping for years ahead. Dren tanned leather, his scarred face calm, his voice low, joking with Lyss, who tuned her fiddle, her eyes bright, her laugh quick, like she was tuning the Hollow's heart. Miro slung stones, his tunic patched, his grin wide, his voice loud, challenging Kael, like he was aiming for the stars. Ysmeine sorted pelts, her braids swinging, her voice warm, joking with Brant, who forged a hinge, his grin wide, like he was shaping their place. Calla sorted peas with Nia, her tunic patched, her smile shy, her voice soft, asking Lila about splash fights, like she was blooming with the Hollow. Torv carved a staff, his cloak shed, his voice low, joking with Elira, who wove a shawl, her eyes bright, her laugh quick, like she was weaving their future. Myra sorted herbs, her gray hair tied back, her voice warm, joking with Joren, who sharpened a bow, his grin wide, like he was aiming for their home. Finn drummed a stick, his tunic patched, his grin wide, his voice loud, challenging Wren, like he was beating the Hollow's rhythm. Sigrid sorted seeds, her staff propped, her voice warm, joking with Hal, who mended a net, his grin wide, like he was netting their place. Wren sang softly, her tunic patched, her smile shy, her voice clear, asking Nyssa about flutes, like she was singing with the Hollow. Drenvar sorted hides, his scarred face calm, his voice low, joking with Liora, who strung her lute, her eyes bright, her laugh quick, like she was strumming their future. Kael slung stones, his tunic patched, his grin wide, his voice loud, challenging Miro, like he was aiming for the Hollow's heart. Vira sorted dyes, her cloak shed, her voice warm, joking with Toren, who carved a spoon, his grin wide, like he was carving their place. Toren told a story, his beard streaked, his voice low, his eyes bright, like he was spinning their home. Elara sorted wool, her braids swinging, her voice warm, joking with Rorik, who sharpened a bow, his grin wide, like he was aiming for their home. Nyssa played her flute, her tunic patched, her smile shy, her voice clear, asking Kael about slings, like she was playing with the Hollow.
They'd kindled this noon from embers. Kaelith's exile from the Crystal Veil, chasing the Codex's heart, had led her through rifts, seas, deserts, peaks, chasms, and ruins, to this summer's tide. Torren's flight from the Emberfall Dominion, burned by guilt, had shaped him from the Waste to the Veil's pulse, his hands now creators. Sylvara's fight for the Verdant Hollow had grown her from healer to soul, her roots eternal. Rhydian, dodging his Riftborn blood, had tied himself to them, his tablet gone. Lila, Mara, Thom, Eli, Sana, Eryn, Lora, Cal, Gavyn, Tira, Veyra, Orin, Nia, Soren, Kian, Tarn, Dren, Lyss, Miro, Ysmeine, Brant, Calla, Torv, Elira, Myra, Joren, Finn, Sigrid, Hal, Wren, Drenvar, Liora, Kael, Vira, Toren, Elara, Rorik, Nyssa—family forged—were the Hollow's tide, proof it could thrive for all. The Weaver's Voice was silent, its ruin buried, but its lesson lingered, a root from the Sunken Isles to the Voidheart's crypt.
Kaelith stirred the soup, her eyes catching Rhydian's, her smile teasing, her voice light, like a spark on kindling, her hair glinting. "Your hooks are crude, Thalor. My soup's simmering—bet's mine. Ready to pick my berries?" She stepped closer, her hands brushing juice, her heart quickening, like his grin was a flame she couldn't dodge.
Rhydian paused, his knife still, his smirk wide, his eyes glinting, his voice smooth, like a sailor's charm. "Pick berries, Varn? These hooks catch true—your soup's no match. Dance tonight, or you're baking my bread." He leaned in, his hand grazing her arm, his grin daring, his chest tight, like her laugh was pulling him under.
She laughed, her voice sharp, playful, her eyes dancing, her fingers brushing his, lingering. "Baking? I'm winning, Rhydian—you'll be hauling my logs by dusk. Dance's only if you beg." Her smile widened, her cheeks flushing, her heart racing, like the fire between them was blazing.
He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing, his eyes locked on hers, his breath warm. "Beg? I don't beg, Kaelith. I'll spin you till the stars rise—bet's mine. Ready to melt?" His hand caught hers, squeezing gently, his heart thudding, like he was wagering his soul.
Kaelith's breath caught, her voice softer, bold, like a flame catching. "Melt? You're dreaming, sailor. I'll have you stirring my pot before you touch me." She squeezed back, her smile fierce, her eyes bright, pulling away slow, her heart pounding, like she'd lit a blaze she couldn't quench.
Sylvara braided her rope, catching Torren's gaze, her voice bright, teasing, like a bell's chime, her braid bouncing. "Torren, your scythe's dull. Forge failing, or you just lost in my flax?" She flicked a fiber at him, her laugh sharp, her eyes gleaming, like she knew his heart's rhythm.
Torren paused, hammer still, his grin wide, his voice deep, warm, like a hearth's glow, his eyes soft. "Lost, Ren? Your rope's a tangle—my scythe's art. Bet I finish this before your cord's done." He stepped closer, wiping sweat, his laugh low, his chest warm, like her voice was a fire he wanted to tend.
She stood, rope down, her voice sharp, playful, her smile wide, her cheeks pink. "Art? I'd rather the goats braid my flax. I'll win, Torren—loser sings tonight, just us." She leaned in, her hand brushing his chest, her laugh loud, her heart quick, like his grin was pulling her closer.
He caught her wrist, his voice teasing, bold, his eyes locked on hers, his breath catching. "Sing? If I win, you're cooking my soup—just us, Ren. If you win, I'm your smith for a season. Deal?" His hand lingered, warm, his heart thudding, like her laugh was his forge.
Sylvara grinned, her voice soft, daring, her eyes sparkling, her hand squeezing his. "Deal, Torren. But you're scrubbing my cauldron when I win—hope you like grease." She pulled back, her laugh bright, her heart pounding, like the Hollow was kindling their flame.
Lila tugged Nyssa's sleeve, her voice high, spilling over, like a stream's rush, her ribbon gone, her grin huge. "Nyssa, your splash is weak! Bet I make the biggest wave—loser sweeps the pottery shed!" She waved her hands, her eyes bright, her feet splashing, like the Hollow was her arena.
Nyssa laughed, her voice young, bold, her tunic patched, her smile wide. "Sweep? Lila, I'll flood you! Double chores if I win—deal?" She splashed back, her eyes sparkling, her hands quick, like she was chasing Lila's fire.
Kael darted in, his voice loud, bold, his tunic patched, his smile wide. "Waves? I'm in—my splash is biggest! Lila, you're hauling my stones if I win!" He jumped in, his grin huge, his hands waving, like he was stealing their game.
Wren shoved Kael, her voice loud, bold, her tunic patched, her eyes bright. "Stones? I'll win, Kael! Nyssa, Lila, you're slow—my song's the champ!" She sang a note, her laugh sharp, her hands wet, like she was queen of the splash.
Finn protested, her voice loud, her tunic patched, her eyes sparkling. "Champ? Wren, I'm crushing you! Lila, you're done!" She tossed a pebble, her laugh wild, her hands quick, like she was racing the noon.
Mara looked up, her needle pausing, her voice warm, her shawl slipping, her smile soft. "Crushing, Finn? You're all chaos—splash waves, not fights. Sana's watching!" Her eyes teased, her laugh clear, her heart full, like she was cradling their storm.
Thom set his knife down, his voice rough, kind, his grin wide, his hands steady. "Chaos is good, Mara. Finn, Wren, splash true—Kael, help Nyssa. Lila, no tricks." His laugh was deep, his eyes bright, like he was carving their joy.
Soren fired a pot, her voice warm, her shawl slipping, her smile soft, her eyes on Kian. "Tricks, Lila? Keep it fair, or I'm judging. Pots for soup—ready?" Her laugh was clear, her hands steady, like she was shaping the Hollow's feast.
Tarn played a note, his voice creaky, warm, his grin wide, his eyes soft. "Soup's fine, Soren. I'll play for the kids—tune for their splash. Nyssa, splash hard." His flute sang, his hands sure, like he was piping for life.
Dren stretched leather, his voice low, warm, his scarred face calm, his eyes on Lyss. "Hard, Nyssa? Kael's got spark. Lyss, fiddle tonight—make 'em dance?" His laugh was soft, his hands steady, like he was tanning their future.
Lyss tuned her fiddle, her voice bright, quick, her eyes sparkling, her smile wide. "Dance, Dren? Only if you move—scar's no excuse. Kids, I'm playing for the winner!" Her laugh was loud, her hands quick, like she was stringing the Hollow's heart.
Ysmeine sorted pelts, her voice warm, her braids swinging, her smile wide. "Winner, Lyss? My pelts'll warm that dance—Brant, forge faster, we're moving!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was weaving their place.
Brant hammered a hinge, his voice rough, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Faster, Ysmeine? I'm forging a lock—Calla, your peas better grow!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was forging their home.
Torv carved his staff, his voice low, warm, his cloak shed, his eyes on Elira. "Grow, Brant? Elira's shawls'll bloom. Tonight, you sharing, love?" His laugh was soft, his hands steady, like he was carving their future.
Elira wove her shawl, her voice bright, quick, her eyes sparkling, her smile wide. "Sharing, Torv? Only if you dance—staff or not, you're moving. Kids, my tale's for the champ!" Her laugh was loud, her hands quick, like she was weaving the Hollow's heart.
Myra sorted herbs, her voice warm, her gray hair tied back, her smile wide. "Champ, Elira? My herbs'll spice that soup—Joren, aim sharper, we're eating!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was planting their place.
Joren sharpened his bow, his voice rough, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Sharper, Myra? I'm hunting for stew—Finn, your drum better sing!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was aiming for their home.
Sigrid sorted seeds, her voice warm, her staff propped, her smile wide. "Sing, Joren? My seeds'll bloom—Hal, mend faster, we're planting!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was sowing their place.
Hal mended his net, his voice rough, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Faster, Sigrid? I'm netting fish—Wren, your songs better shine!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was netting their home.
Drenvar sorted hides, his voice low, warm, his scarred face calm, his eyes on Liora. "Shine, Hal? Liora's lute'll glow. Tonight, you playing, love?" His laugh was soft, his hands steady, like he was tanning their future.
Liora strung her lute, her voice bright, quick, her eyes sparkling, her smile wide. "Playing, Drenvar? Only if you dance—scar or not, you're moving. Kids, my song's for the champ!" Her laugh was loud, her hands quick, like she was strumming the Hollow's heart.
Vira sorted dyes, her voice warm, her cloak shed, her smile wide. "Champ, Liora? My dyes'll color that dance—Toren, carve faster, we're staining!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was painting their place.
Toren carved his spoon, his voice low, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Faster, Vira? I'm carving for soup—Kael, your sling better fly!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was carving their home.
Elara sorted wool, her voice warm, her braids swinging, her smile wide. "Fly, Toren? My wool'll warm—Rorik, aim sharper, we're spinning!" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was spinning their place.
Rorik sharpened his bow, his voice rough, bright, his grin wide, his eyes alive. "Sharper, Elara? I'm hunting for soup—Nyssa, your flute better sing!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was aiming for their home.
Eryn sorted blackberries, her voice low, warm, her hands pausing, her eyes glistening. "This Hollow's a tide—kids, warmth, love. You've built a miracle, Kaelith, Sylvara." Her smile was steady, her heart woven into the vines, like she'd always been here.
Lora nodded, tossing a stem, her voice soft, clear, her eyes on Nia. "Miracle, yes. We'll weave for autumn—cloaks, blankets. Hollow's forever." Her laugh was light, her hands quick, like she was weaving tomorrow.
Cal carved his spoon, his voice creaky, warm, his grin wide, his hands sure. "Forever's right. Pottery shed's next—big, for bowls. This Hollow's eternal." His eyes were soft, his heart rooted, like he was carving eternity.
Veyra harvested plums, her voice warm, her curls loose, her smile wide. "Eternal, Cal? My plums'll feed it—sweet by autumn. Tira, hunt's on?" Her laugh was deep, her hands steady, like she was harvesting years.
Orin stacked logs, his voice rough, bright, his eyes alive, his grin wide. "Hunt, Veyra? I'm hauling for it—barns, sheds. Nia, weave tighter!" His laugh was loud, his hands sure, like he was building forever.
Nia wove her mat, her voice soft, bold, her hair braided, her eyes wide. "Tighter, Orin? This'll hold peas—tons! Sylvara, it's strong, right?" Her smile grew, her hands waving, like she was crafting the Hollow's dreams.
Gavyn tossed a log, her voice loud, teasing, her grin bright, her hands strong. "Strong, Nia? My stack's taller—Tira, your arrows need work!" Her laugh echoed, her eyes sparkling, like the Hollow was her stage.
Tira fletched an arrow, her voice sharp, warm, her hair tucked, her smile quick. "Work, Gavyn? My arrows fly true—unlike your knots. Rhydian, hunt tomorrow—big game?" Her eyes met his, her hands ready, like she was aiming for home.
As the noon glowed, a rustle broke the chatter—not a rift, but footsteps, soft and deliberate, from the path's bend. Three figures emerged—a woman with a satchel, her cloak patched, a man with a staff, his hair gray, and a boy with a drum, their faces weary but hopeful, eyes catching the fire's glow. The woman raised a hand, her voice steady, warm, like a hearth's call. "Heard of a Hollow—green, thriving, open. This it? I'm Mira. This is Gavric, our son Lir. We've got herbs, rhythms—room for us?"
Sylvara stepped forward, firelight on her face, her hands open, her voice bright, like dawn's song, her braid gleaming, her eyes meeting Mira's, her hand brushing Torren's, a spark flaring. "This is the Verdant Hollow. I'm Sylvara. That's Kaelith, Torren, Rhydian, Lila, Mara, Thom, Eli, Sana, Eryn, Lora, Cal, Gavyn, Tira, Veyra, Orin, Nia, Soren, Kian, Tarn, Dren, Lyss, Miro, Ysmeine, Brant, Calla, Torv, Elira, Myra, Joren, Finn, Sigrid, Hal, Wren, Drenvar, Liora, Kael, Vira, Toren, Elara, Rorik, Nyssa. Room's endless—welcome." Her smile was wide, her heart a tide, wide as the earth.
Lir clutched his drum, his voice young, bold, his eyes wide, his hair glinting. "Rhythms? I'll play—Lila, Nyssa, wanna drum with me?" His smile was quick, his hands waving, like he was joining the Hollow's beat.
Kaelith nodded, her hands warm, her voice steady, her eyes bright, catching Rhydian's grin. "Drum, Lir. Mira, Gavric, you're home. Share your herbs, stay. We're building forever." Her smile was full, her hand grazing Rhydian's, her heart racing, like the dance was near.
Torren waved them over, his voice gruff, kind, his grin warm, his eyes on Sylvara. "Mira, grab a seat—soup's hot. Gavric, Lir, eat, talk. Plenty here." His laugh was deep, his hand lingering on Sylvara's shoulder, his chest tight, like her warmth was his fire.
Rhydian tossed his shavings, his voice light, teasing, his smirk gentle, his eyes meeting Lir's. "Drum, Lir? Top Nyssa's flute, and you're in. Welcome to the tides—jump in." He winked, his nod sure, his gaze flicking to Kaelith, like he was promising a night to burn.
The Hollow flourished, its embers glowing, the stream singing, the saplings thriving. They laughed, worked, forty-five now, the heart-tree watching, the noon bright, the earth alive. The Tapestry was whole, and they were too, stoking tides for tomorrow, one heart at a time.