It began as a whisper in the soil.
Not a sound.
A sensation—a heartbeat that did not come from any known root, nor from the breath of wind winding through the Garden's trees. It was deeper. Subterranean. Ancient.
And it pulsed in threes.
Elowen felt it while tending a memory grove—trees that sang the names of stories that had yet to be completed. Each leaf glimmered with a syllable.
Three leaves dropped, all from different trees.
Each inscribed with the same glyph:
☉
The child—still unnamed, still wide-eyed—stood barefoot at the edge of the Citadel of Driftwood, where the sea-Reclaimed built stories from stormwood and salvaged myths. The tide lapped unusually that morning, reciting rhythms in sets of three.
Even the wind seemed to loop its messages.
Not spiraling outward.
But spiraling in.
Toward something.
Toward someone.
