It began in the library.
Lira was reshelving scrolls in Elmara's deepest vault when she felt it—a faint vibration beneath her feet, like a heartbeat echoing through stone.
She followed it.
Down crumbling stairs. Through forgotten corridors lined with dust-covered statues of long-dead loremasters. Past doors sealed with wax and warning runes.
Until she reached the lowest chamber: the Vault of Echoes, a room said to hold memories too dangerous to speak aloud.
The door was open.
Inside, the air shimmered with golden motes—fragments of light that should not exist underground.
And in the center of the floor, pushing through a crack in the ancient tile, grew a single black root.
It was no thicker than her finger, yet it pulsed with quiet power. Where it touched the stone, faint images flickered:
— Darien teaching her to read elven script as a child
— His ash-hand shielding her from falling debris during the retreat from Orion's Gate
— Him whispering, "Tell my story, Lira," the night before the ritual
Tears filled her eyes.
"It's you," she breathed.
The root trembled—as if in response.
She knelt and placed her palm over it.
Cold. Alive. Familiar.
Memories flooded her—not just hers, but his:
The weight of command. The taste of ash in his mouth after using the Unlight. The loneliness of being neither elf nor Hollow.
And beneath it all, a single thought, clear as starlight:
"Find me."
Back in the Heart Chamber, Lira showed the others.
King Aerion frowned. "A root? Beneath the city? That could destabilize the foundations."
"It's not ordinary," Lira insisted. "It's made of memory. Of him."
Thorin crossed his arms. "Even if it is… he chose to be unwritten. Should we disturb his rest?"
"He's not at rest!" Lira cried. "He's trapped between what was and what is! This root—it's reaching for the surface. For the Tree."
Elyar stepped forward, eyes wide. "The Tree's roots and this one… they're resonating. Like two halves of a broken song."
Malrik, silent until now, spoke softly. "I've seen it too. At night. Near the western gate. A shadow that watches… then fades when I call his name."
Prince Kaelin looked at the King. "What if bringing him back isn't betrayal… but balance?"
A long silence.
Then Aerion sighed. "Do what you must, Lira. But be warned—if you pull him back into the world of names… the First Fear will wake fully. It hungers for true names. And his is the truest of all."
That night, Lira returned alone.
She brought water from the Tree's purest spring, moonpetal oil, and the silver stylus still stained with Darien's blood.
She poured the water around the root.
It drank greedily, growing an inch taller.
She anointed it with oil.
The images sharpened:
Now she saw him standing in a gray void, surrounded by shifting walls of forgotten names. He reached out—but the space between them stretched like smoke.
"I'm coming," she whispered.
She pressed the stylus to the root.
Blood met memory.
The chamber filled with light—not golden, not violet, but silver, like dawn on still water.
And in that light, a voice spoke—not in her ears, but in her bones:
"The path is narrow. Walk it only if you're willing to forget everything… to remember me."
Lira didn't hesitate.
"I already have," she said. "Now let me remember you."
She gripped the root—and pulled.
Not with her hands.
With her will.
The ground shook.
Above, in Lyothara, the Great Tree shuddered.
And deep below, the First Fear opened one eye.
Outside, the wind carried a new sound.
Not a heartbeat.
But a name, spoken for the first time in days:
"Darien."
And somewhere between worlds, a shadow smiled.