The glade had once been sacred—a crescent of moonlit grass ringed by birch and pine, whispered about in elder tales. But war had torn it open. The ground bore blackened scars, and the trees bent with grief. The air hung thick, the wound still raw beneath the surface.
Tonight, under a silver sky, they returned to heal it.
Aria led the way, her daughter nestled against her chest. She wore ritual white, gold-threaded runes stitched at the hem. Rowan walked beside her, carrying sage and lavender. Mira followed with pure water and spirit bread. Behind them came the new council—warriors, healers, rogues—joined by children whose laughter softened the silence.
This was no pageant. It was a plea. A declaration that healing belonged to all, and to the land.
At the edge of the blackened soil, Ari
