It started with a ripple.
Not water.
Wind.
The kind of wind that arrived only when something forgotten remembered how to return.
On the far edge of the Driftroot archipelago—newly grown, unclaimed, shaped by tectonic breath and memorylight spore—stood an island that had not existed before. No map named it. No beacon marked it.
It simply was.
And Kye felt it before he saw it.
Standing atop Driftroot's highest ring, wind pressing into his jacket, he watched the horizon shift—not like a storm, not like weather.
Like invitation.
Zeraphine arrived beside him, holding the latest article without urgency.
> ARTICLE SIXTY-SEVEN: Some beginnings are not forged. They are welcomed.
She didn't speak at first.
Then, as if reading the air:
"It's not calling to be claimed."
Kye nodded. "It's calling to be met."
They took the small vessel Vassa, lightcraft-class, outfitted not for exploration, but for listening.
And as they neared the edge of Driftroot's reach, the vaultlight dimmed.
Not for loss.
For arrival.
The island's shore rose like a memory surfacing gently. Trees of irregular curve bent toward the ocean not because of wind—but as if bowing.
The sand glowed faintly.
Memorylight embedded in each grain.
Kye stepped ashore first. His boots sank a fraction, not in softness, but in acceptance.
Zeraphine followed, her gaze upward.
"No stars."
Kye looked. She was right.
The sky above the island was blank.
No constellations. No trace of the System's outer relay fields.
"Because this place isn't beneath anything," he whispered.
"It's the start," she said. "It's above."
They turned inland.
And walked into a place that had never forgotten how to begin.