The winter had come again to New Hearth, but it was a winter of profound, golden serenity. Fifty years had passed since the day two immortal sentinels had dared to touch beneath the pomegranate groves of ancient Eden. The world they had known as young rebels had grown into a vast, harmonious civilization spanning continents, bound not by decrees of divine terror, but by treaties of mutual aid, shared trade, and the sacred sanctity of human life.
High upon the southern ridge, the original stone homestead still stood, its cedar timbers now darkened to a rich, honeyed charcoal by decades of comforting woodsmoke. The orchard of pomegranates, figs, and almonds had grown into a majestic grove of ancient, gnarled trunks whose branches sheltered children, grandchildren, and travelers who climbed
