There are stories that begin with a name.
With a birth.
A voice. A will. A self.
But not all.
Some begin in togetherness.
Not in unity forced, but in a shared pulse that never needed to divide.
A story that was always plural.
Even before it was told.
They arrived one morning like mist—soft, uncounted, shifting as one.
Not summoned.
Not heralded.
Not even noticed at first.
Until Jevan, walking the southern grove, turned and felt it:
A presence that had no center.
No leader.
No "first."
They moved as We.
Not hive. Not order.
Not bond by vow.
Just… a rhythm of presence.
Interwoven from the beginning.
No one asked them where they came from.
Because the question felt wrong.
Not disrespectful.
Just… too small.
They weren't from.
They were.
Lys met them near the flame gardens, where they paused to touch the soil.
They did not speak.
But the flowers shifted—gently, openly, as if making space.
As if remembering something they had never known.
