The temple was silent, the once-sacred sanctuary reduced to ash and shattered stone. But as Elira stepped into its heart—into the very place where Caelen had fallen—the silence whispered something new.
The ground was no longer dead.
From soil scorched by fire and soaked in sacrifice, silver flowers bloomed—dozens, then hundreds—delicate and glowing softly in the dawn light. Their petals shimmered like starlight, swaying to a wind that did not touch them. Elira's breath caught. These weren't born of nature. They were born of grief. Of love. Of him.
She knelt among them, the Weeping Blade resting beside her knees, her fingers trembling as they brushed soft petals. The curse within her stirred—not with sorrow, but with something far more piercing.
Not pain. Not despair. But life. Fragile. Fierce. Alive.
She pressed her hand to the soil. A pulse answered. Steady. Faint. Familiar.
"You're here," she whispered, tears streaking her face. "You're still saving us."
Behind her, footsteps crunched through gravel. A voice—young, clear, uncertain—broke the stillness.
"You're Elira," the girl said. "The Keeper of his story."
Elira turned. A young woman stood there, scarred but unafraid, her eyes lit with something Elira recognized: purpose.
"I am," Elira replied. "Who are you?"
"Lira," the girl answered. "I heard you in Kareth. I came to help. To tend this place. To make it sacred again—for those like him."
Others followed.
A boy with a carved wooden bird. An old woman leaning on a staff wrapped in vines. Families with sacks of seeds and stories in their eyes. They came from the ruins of cities, from ashes and sorrow, drawn by the echo of Caelen's sacrifice. Each brought something. And more importantly, each brought hope.
Elira's heart swelled. The curse still hummed beneath her skin, but it no longer cut. Their pain wasn't a weight. It was a thread. And she was no longer carrying it alone.
"He would have wanted this," she said, her voice thick. "A place where kindness could grow."
So they began.
They cleared the rubble. They tilled the soil. They planted among the silver blooms, careful not to disturb what had been born of Caelen's final breath. Lira sang as she dug—an old song, wordless and raw—and Elira joined her, the two voices weaving together a new kind of healing. Not forgetting. But remembering with purpose.
The garden stretched outward like a living prayer. Lanterns were lit. Stones were carved. Children's laughter echoed between the broken columns. And in the center of it all, Caelen's presence lingered—not as shadow or memory, but as light. Quiet. Constant.
As night fell, the garden glowed.
Elira stood in the center, wind tugging at her cloak, her eyes shimmering. Her grief had not lessened. But now, it bloomed. Rooted deep. Watered by tears. And stronger than ever.
She was no longer alone.