The transformation was agonizing. The verdant vitality of the First Garden shriveled into the cold, oppressive geometry of the Sun Throne room. The silver-leafed trees solidified into jagged pillars of obsidian, and the fragrant moss beneath Elara's feet turned into the slick, unforgiving marble that had once been the site of their greatest struggle.
Julian was thrown against the base of the throne, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. He struggled to rise, but the gravity of the room felt heavier than before, intensified by the presence of the entity before them.
The Gardener of the End stood atop the dais. It did not possess the clinical stillness of the Aethelgard, nor the jagged, burning malice of Silas. It held a presence of absolute, terrifying neutrality.
It looked do
