The road through the Vale of Myrrh was silent.
Miraen, Aeliana, and Lira moved cautiously beneath the ancient boughs, their footfalls muffled by dew-soaked moss. Ever since they'd crossed through the Convergence Grove again, time felt wrong—slower in some places, skipping in others. Birds sang backward. Shadows rippled ahead of light.
Miraen paused and placed her hand on a mossy trunk. It was warm.
"The trees are remembering us," Aeliana murmured behind her, eyes flickering silver. "They carry fragments of the echo."
"The echo?" Lira asked.
"Each place we step now holds layers of what we've been. Where we've failed. Where we've triumphed. The boundaries are wearing thin."
Miraen let the words settle in her bones.
Something was watching them. Not with malice—but with the weight of expectation.
