In a place untouched by time, where stars rested in the grass and the wind hummed lullabies of forgotten gods, Seraphiel sat beneath the towering bloom of an ancient world tree. Its petals, soft as dreams, fell in rhythm with her breath. The Grove of Everlight had always responded to her thoughts—until now.
Now, it was silent.
She turned slowly.
The breeze, once playful, now felt like the hush before mourning. The leaves shimmered not with peace, but with a tremor that pulsed through every living thing. Birds did not sing. The celestial deer that drank from the mirrored pond had fled. Even the grove’s roots—alive with old wisdom—had begun to draw inward, curling as if afraid.
Her gaze fell to the small toy nestled in her lap: a simple, hand-sewn pony made of faded velvet and dreams. A
