By the time they reached the edge of the Moonbridge Gardens, the city had sighed them out like a tired stage manager at curtain call.
Valeight didn't really end — it just started refusing to cooperate. Roads curved into ideas. Doors blinked and apologized for not being exits. A lamppost asked Ilyan for his star sign.
"Pisces," he answered. The lamppost nodded solemnly. "Unfortunate."
Now they stood before a wrought-iron archway dripping with wisteria that smelled like regret and sugar.
"Behold!" Rue spun dramatically. "The Moonbridge Gardens! Home of nature's finest illusions and at least three documented reality leaks!"
Ashwen narrowed her eyes. "That's a puddle."
Rue grinned. "Ah, but it's a philosophical puddle."
Groat buzzed warily. "We are standing in a known class-trigger field. These 'gardens' were designed to provoke awakenings, rejections, or… minor ego implosions. Try not to step on anything you emotionally relate to."
Monsieur Loup adjusted his crooked jester hat, looking far too delighted. "At last! A place more unstable than my love life."
The path inside was paved with white bricks that hummed when stepped on. The hedges bowed politely, though a few snickered.
Ilyan stopped mid-step. "Are those—"
"Topiary swans arguing about ethics?" Rue nodded. "Yes. Don't take sides. They've got sharp opinions."
Ashwen kept a hand on her dagger. "I hate it here."
"I think you're just not whimsical enough," Rue said, skipping ahead.
They passed a tree that offered unsolicited compliments.
"You have very symmetrical earlobes," it told Loup.
"Merci," he bowed. "You are surprisingly well-rooted."
Further in, a bridge arced over a shimmering lake — but the lake was upside-down, sky suspended beneath it. A girl made of moths offered them tea.
They declined.
At the center of the gardens was a raised dais of stone and silver ivy — clearly the focal point.
Groat pulsed in Ilyan's pocket. "This is it. The resonance is strongest here. The relic will respond now, if you're ready."
Ilyan pulled it out — a shimmering, vaguely key-like object that constantly reassembled itself when he wasn't looking. "And if I'm not?"
"Then it will respond anyway. Possibly with teeth."
Ilyan stepped forward and placed the relic on the dais.
It vibrated.
Threads of light coiled outward in fractal spirals. Symbols bloomed in the air — glowing glyphs of law, order, compromise, and loopholes.
Then… a voice.
"Identify primary anchor. State claim."
Groat chimed in immediately. "Ilyan Elthar, Temporary Agent of the Ministry of Posthumous Affairs, Relic-bound under Clause Twelve-Theta."
"Claim accepted. Class designation: Lexomancer."
Rue gasped. "Ooh, that sounds sexy."
"Subclass: Scribal Executor. Access: Partial. Path: Unfolding."
The light collapsed into a small sigil that embedded itself in Ilyan's palm. It didn't hurt, but it felt like signing something without reading the fine print.
Ashwen raised an eyebrow. "So, what can you do now?"
Ilyan stared at the glowing imprint. "...Absolutely no idea."
Suddenly, flowers bloomed along the hedge line. A breeze swept through the garden. Something about the world settled.
And then, predictably, everything went wrong.
The sky fractured.
A scream echoed — one that didn't come from any mouth. The ground beneath the dais cracked, and out crawled a creature made of torn contracts and bureaucratic ink.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Groat groaned.
Rue backpedaled. "What is that?"
"A Manifested Denial. The gardens stored a failed application so bitter it grew sentience. Fantastic."
The creature gurgled legalese.
Ilyan instinctively raised his relic. "Okay… okay… I think I need to file something!"
Ashwen tossed him a quill. "Try 'cease and desist'!"
Ilyan scribbled a sigil in the air. Words pulsed out — and struck the creature, halting it mid-lunge.
"Ha!" he shouted. "That worked!"
It roared and charged again.
Rue flung confetti in its face. "For distraction!"
It did nothing.
Monsieur Loup muttered, "This is a terrible party."
Ilyan drew a circle in the air, muttered a string of formal jargon, and with Groat's whispered guidance, stamped a glowing emblem mid-air.
The creature froze, collapsed into paper scraps, and fluttered into dust.
Ilyan stood panting.
Groat buzzed proudly. "Congratulations. You've filed your first lethal clause."
Ashwen looked around. "Are we done here?"
The gardens pulsed once… then began rearranging behind them.
Rue exhaled. "Time to go before the swans start debating Nietzsche again."
They left Moonbridge Gardens a little bruised, a little more powerful, and — as Rue insisted — much more fabulous.
On the way out, the tree whispered, "Your trauma makes you interesting."
No one replied.