Morocco greeted Aman with the scent of saffron, whispers in Arabic, and the deep hum of the Sahara's breath. Guided by the scroll Meera had given him, he arrived in a windswept town near Erfoud, known to locals as Zahrat al-Raml—the Desert Blossom. They spoke of a ruined garden lost to time, once kept alive by monks who believed mango trees were the Earth's dreams made tangible.
The pendant pointed east, pulsing brighter as he approached the remnants of an ancient aqueduct. Beneath it, hidden under layers of sand, he uncovered a stone gate carved with the symbol of a mango leaf woven with a crescent moon. The door led down.
Within the subterranean chamber, cool and echoing with a forgotten hymn, Aman discovered a grove of petrified mango trees—frozen in time, their bark like marble. In the center stood one living tree, small but defiant, its fruit dark gold and glowing faintly. This was the third seed, long planted but dormant, waiting.
He approached with the resin from the Suryansh and let a single drop fall into its roots.
The tree responded
.
A sudden gust swirled through the chamber, voices riding the wind, fragments of languages Aman didn't know yet somehow understood. Images flashed in his mind: cities before history, seeds carried across seas, whispers of an eighth tree kept secret even from the Order.
As the glow faded, he realized he wasn't alone. Standing behind him in the chamber archway was a young boy—barefoot, with sand-colored eyes and a hollow-seed pendant of his own.
"You're late," the boy said with a half-smile. "We've been waiting."