The Garden was no longer a sanctuary.
It was a citadel of living memory, rooted in the bones of a rewritten world, its branches curling into the void like defiant fingers clawing back at entropy. And now it stirred—not in peace, but in preparation.
The sky had gone silent.
No birds.
No wind.
No stars.
Only the trembling hush before a scream.
Aiden stood at the western edge of the Garden, eyes narrowed as the horizon twisted into impossible angles. The wind, when it came, carried no scent, no warmth. It was not wind at all, but breath—exhaled by something vast and broken, something ancient.
"They're almost here," came a voice behind him.
He didn't turn.
He already knew who it was.
Elowen, the archivist of forgotten stories, stepped up beside him. Her cloak was stitched from pages no longer written, fluttering as if caught between timelines. She held a lantern, though there was no need for light.
"You can feel them," she murmured. "The Unwritten."
He nodded.
