The seedlings on Nightspire's highest terrace should not have survived the wind.The roof stood uncloaked before the endless night; magma‑scented gusts lashed the railings; volcanic ash settled in gray drifts thick as winter snow. And yet those fragile blades of moon‑grass—pale silver, edges glowing faint—lifted each dawn as though drinking from an invisible sun.
They reminded me of us, I decided: living on stone meant for steel, insisting on bloom.
"Another centimeter," Calia announced, crouching beside a red‑clay planter. A thread of sunlight—ordinary, not Afterlight—glinted off her measuring rod. "Soil mix works!" She clapped, smearing loam across her cheeks like war paint.
"Then double the plots," I said. "We'll carpet this roof by season's end." My voice sounded steadier than I felt. Though wars had paused, equilibrium inside me still swayed—as though the memory I sacrificed left a hollow that moon‑grass tried to fill with its own quiet song.
Calia straightened, tucking a seed pouch into belt. "Lord Auron sailed at dawn. He left a note." She produced folded parchment, corners singed.
The letter was brief, in his crisp hand:
My Queen of Twins,Isles await. Mirrors still whisper, but stars are silent. If silence breaks, send word—silver shard will answer. Do not grow complacent; realms are gardens—beautiful until someone forgets to weed.—A.
I smiled. "Auron remains a cynic."
"Cynics make good weeding tools," Calia muttered, eyeing the horizon. Asterion constellation shimmered faint where the Custodian stone had once burned. Probation, still in effect, felt like a teacher's glare at the back of the class. I pocketed Auron's silver shard and dusted soil from gloves.
Below the parapet, the palace bell tolled three times—summoning for the Festival of First Garden, a new holiday Ravan announced to mark ceasing of hostilities. Demons loved pageantry; mortals loved feasts; both loved distractions. I loved neither—but a queen, like a plant, must stand under weather given to her.
"Tell the musicians I'll arrive soon," I said. Calia scampered down stairs.
I lingered, watching moon‑grass sway. Its glow intensified whenever Afterlight second sunrise flared. A science I did not yet understand—nor, if I was honest, fully trust.
Do not grow complacent. Auron's warning pressed, chill.
A rustle. I turned—expecting Vael reposted to roof guard. Instead, the Blind Archivist emerged from stairwell, white hair stringing loose, his silk eye‑blinds askew. Breath rattled.
"Empress," he gasped, "the glass trembles."
No further explanation; fear crackled louder than his words. I helped him to bench. "Mirrors again?"
"Not mirrors—beyond." He lifted a shimmering fragment of Chrona Glass; its surface swirled inky black shot with pinpoints of light that crawled like insects. "Asterion dust settled into new path. Something rides our probation."
The grass around us dimmed, as if listening.
"Show me," I said.
He pressed the shard to my palm. A surge of vision—less violent than Chrona Obelisk, closer to dream:
I stand in Hall of Confluence. Ravan wields twin dawn in his bare hand, forging a second arrow. But the metal is not star‑iron—it's root‑iron, grown from the terrace garden's glowing blades. Each blade sings, sacrificing itself. Yet as he lifts arrow, his silver eyes turn black, lips crack in quiet anguish. When he releases, the arrow misses the sky—pierces the palace roof instead, splitting Nightspire's heart.
Vision snapped away. I staggered.
"What time?" I asked.
Archivist shook head. "Mirrors only show path, not hour."
Root‑iron? Moon‑grass sacrificial? The image churned dread.
He gripped my wrist. "One line of hope. Your lost memory—that empty vessel—remains valuable. If destiny tries filling void with darkness, you may redirect."
"I don't know how."
"Find what grew in the hurt." He touched a moon‑grass blade. "Roots speak."
Cryptic as always. Still, message clear: The garden, symbol of rebirth, might birth ruin if unchecked.
I inhaled, tasting mineral wind. "Summon Ravan to terrace after ceremony."
Lower Courtyards — Festival of First Garden
Banners of emerald and argent draped basalt arches. Demon drummers beat asymmetrical rhythms that made mortal merchants clap on wrong counts, laughing. Long tables overflowed: honey‑glazed fowl, stalactite mushrooms stewed in ember wine, solar‑wheat bread my childhood village never dreamed. Even orphans ate alongside generals.
Ravan awaited near fountain of obsidian lilies, wearing informal jet tunic and a circlet of darksteel leaves that caught Afterlight. He looked less emperor, more myth wandering off tapestry. He offered a cup of mirror‑berry cordial. "To new gardens."
I drank. Sweet; tart; left faint luminescence on tongue. "The terrace grass grows restless," I said quietly.
Silver brows rose. "Restless vegetation? You tease me."
"Archivist brought vision—root‑metal forging, arrow at Nightspire."
His face stilled. "Dreams or omen?"
"Your scars heated during vision," I replied. "I trust omen."
He downed his drink, throat bobbing. "We investigate tonight." His attention flicked outward, voice shifting public. "But for now, queens dance."
Music shifted to waltz. Under lanterns carved of volcanic glass, he guided me across polished stone. Laughter of guests blurred to hush around us; our merged sigils glowed faint beneath gloves, pulse matching mine.
As we spun, I studied faces along edges: Vael smiling, wing flexing; Calia dancing with baker's apprentice; smiths clapping. Harmony. Yet mirror specter's earlier smile taught me harmony could mask fractures.
Dance ended; crowd cheered. We bowed. Courtiers pressed chalices, congratulations. When distraction peaked, Ravan signaled Vael with subtle wingtip; guard understood, sweeping Calia and several watchers into protective orbit. We slipped toward stairwell unnoticed.
Terrace Roof — Moonrise
Night chill nipped as we emerged. The moon‑grass glowed stronger than I'd ever seen—veins streaking luminous white, blade tips exhaling misty sparks. The planters pulsed softly, almost breathing.
Ravan knelt, touching soil. "Ley‑line resonance altered."
"I saw you forging arrow from this," I whispered.
He frowned. "Impossible. Root‑iron… primeval. Forge heat breaks its lattice."
At his fingers, grass bent toward him, as if drawn. A single blade detached, hovering. Its glow intensified, shaping into wire‑slender needle, then twisting thicker—becoming arrowhead silhouette. Energy crackled; air smelled ozone‑sharp.
Ravan yanked hand away. The blade fell inert.
"See?" he muttered. "Something manipulates living metal."
A breeze snaked behind us; temperature plummeted. Archivist emerged again, cane tapping uneven. "Asterion watchers left gate open. Something from void found root‑iron's hunger—offers it starlight if it drinks foundation of palace."
Ravan straightened. "How close?"
"Shadows coil under roots already." Archivist pointed at planters—younger grass tips blackened at edges.
I conjured soul‑flame around palm, illuminating soil. Filaments of smoke‑dark ooze crept between roots, throbbing like veins toward basalt floor—seeking palace heart.
"We sever corruption," Ravan declared. He drew dagger forged of remaining star‑iron dust—our insurance piece—and stabbed soil. Silver blade sizzled, but root‑iron resisted, curling around steel like vines choking tree.
His grip slipped; silver scar on shoulder flared pain.
I thrust soul‑fire into planter. Green‑white flames met black ooze; shriek like kettle of bats ripped sky. Corruption recoiled but not vanquished.
"Dual strike," Ravan gritted. We pressed palms together, channeling twin dawn into soil. Light poured—jade and silver weaving. The planter burst, earth scattering. Grass blazed incandescent, then shattered into sparks that ascended like fireflies.
Breath ragged, I surveyed damage: one planter destroyed, corruption halted—but other planters tingled with same infection.
Archivist bent, collecting surviving blade fragment. It hummed. "Too much to cleanse individually."
Ravan's gaze sharpened. "Then uproot entire terrace."
"The festival's symbol." My shoulders slumped. "But if lives weighed, symbols burn."
We agreed. Vael arrived with demolition squad. Under moon's highest arc, we extracted every planter, carted them to Sunken Forge. I murmured apologies for each blade—stripped from its chance to become memory. Yet some part of me sensed the plants understood—roots sighing relief when distance grew between them and palace veins.
Sunken Forge — Pre‑dawn
Flame pits hissed as we heaved planters into magma flow. Root‑iron glowed, warbling like distant choir, then sank. Oozing corruption fled magma in greasy tendrils—only to burn to ash.
Sweat streaked faces; arms ached. Last planter tipped; sparks roared.
Ravan wiped brow. "What of living metal potential? Gone."
I handed him the intact fragment Archivist saved. "One sample for study—monitored in vault far from ley‑lines."
He nodded, tucking it into lead box, sealing runes. "We guard this one like dragon's heart."
As forge doors sealed, distant bells clamored—alarm signal. Vael's eyes widened. "Mirror Wing breach!"
We sprinted. Inside hall, mirror glass rippled darker than void. The specter bride knelt, agony on features. Hair tangled, eyes luminous violet. She clutched chest where fissure spider‑webbed.
"Help… shards… lost," she whispered.
Ravan approached cautiously. "What threatens you?"
From glass behind her rose silhouettes—shifting constellations shaped like armored giants. Asterion war‑shades. They pressed, fracturing mirror boundary.
I stepped forward, ignoring Archivist's warning hiss. "You aided me twice—return is due." I raised palms, channeling twin dawn into mirror. Lattice of dawn‑light spread across pane, reinforcing.
War‑shades recoiled, hissing star‑tongue.
Specter exhaled relief. She extended palm, offering sliver of clear glass—mirror seed. "Plant again… where roots won't thirst for power… memory safe…"
She faded.
Mirror stilled. Hall quiet.
Ravan pocketed seed. "She gifts second chance for gardens."
"But we must select ground not over ley‑lines," I said. "Somewhere neutral."
"Surface realm hills?" Vael suggested. "Between kingdoms."
My mind raced: orphan soup yards, wasted farmland near plague ruins—they could host new garden unmarred by palace magic.
"Yes," I said. "A garden bridging realms—living apology to Custodians and anchor against void."
Ravan's shoulders eased. "We depart at dawn."
Later, roof once more
Empty terrace looked barren, but hope flickered—planters gone yet foundation unbroken.
Archivist approached, leaning heavily on cane. "Void repelled—for now."
"For now is all history ever gives," I replied.
He smiled, faint. "Lost memory carving space for vigilance, I think."
I considered this. The ache of missing children's laughter no longer hurt; in its place, sharper awareness vibrated—warning me when harmony wobbled. A gift disguised.
Ravan joined, arm brushing mine. "The garden will grow again, Leora—rooted in two worlds, watched by stars."
"And weeded by cynics," I added, recalling Auron. He chuckled.
Below, festival torches guttered to embers. Above, Afterlight second sun peeled across horizon, delicate but defiant. No pulse of corruption answered.
I faced Ravan. "What will we name this new field?"
He thought. "The Dawnroot Glen. Plants that remember dawn—and remind us balance never ends."
I nodded. "We'll sow tomorrow."
Moon‑light kissed his silver eyes; twin dawn scar in my palm tingled. Fingers intertwined, we stood among ash that dreamed of stars, ready to plant seeds that would hold realms steady—if tended with vigilance, truth, and the stubborn will of moon‑grass that refuses to bow.