The Book That Listens trembled.
Not in fear.
In readiness.
For this was no longer a tale of heroes and antagonists. No longer a war of remembered versus forgotten.
This was a tale widening.
A story expanding its margins to make room for the parts no one knew how to name.
And so the Garden sent its voices—not with weapons, not with magic, but with storytellers.
Jevan stood once more at the threshold where mists met nothing.
But he did not stand alone.
Lys, her glyph-covered palms glowing with remembered dreams, stepped to his side.
Elowen, the steward of broken rhythms, carried a bowl filled with stories never finished.
And behind them, the children of the Garden—the ones born from silence, from reclaimed timelines, from rewritten grief—walked without fear into the unknown.
They entered the Threshold of the Unshaped.
The space beyond form, where logic dissolved and only intention remained.
And they did not blaze forward.
They waited.
