It did not rise with fury.
Nor with fire, or thunder, or wrath.
It rose like breath returning to lungs once thought still. Like the hush before a name is spoken. Like a wound remembering it was once a mouth.
The seed cracked again.
The line of light widened, spilling slow and golden across the chamber floor. It touched the edge of her boots, traced up her calves like vines relearning her shape. Her pulse didn’t race—but matched it. Soft, steady. Steady like waiting. Like knowing.
The masked figure did not move.
Not yet.
Its silence was different than the Grove’s. Not sacred. Not old. But hollow. A mimicry of reverence. It watched the seed, and in the way it did, she felt something like fear.
Not for what she might become.
But for what could no longer be stopped.
She took a step b
