The first tendril crossed the boundary at dusk.
It moved slowly—not as a scout, not as a weapon, but as a gesture. It slithered past the edge of the Garden, brushed the soil of the Unwritten Wastes, and paused. It didn't force itself into the land. It waited.
An invitation does not knock down the door.
It opens one.
And waits to be received.
Jevan stood beneath the Watcher's Bough, his gaze turned eastward. Beyond the curling veil of mist and memory, the world writhed with scar tissue—burned timelines, orphaned worlds, ruins of what was never allowed to be.
He had felt it before in battle.
But now he felt it differently.
Not as threat.
As ache.
"There's someone watching," said Elowen quietly. She had come up beside him, barefoot, her cloak of forgotten pages fluttering in the stillness.
"I know," Jevan murmured.
"She hasn't stepped through the veil yet."
"She will."
"You're sure?"
He nodded. "Because the Seed showed her choice. And no one's ever done that before."
