Morning arrived over the Garden the way morning always had.
That, more than anything, struck Sarya as she woke beneath the branches near the cottage.
She had expected, somehow, that the world would feel different after what had happened at the Chair — that the Garden might announce its transformation, mark the moment with something grander than an ordinary sunrise.
It didn't.
The flowers that had bloomed all at once the evening before remained open, unhurried in the early light. Birdsong filled the grove the way it had every morning since their arrival.
The streams carried their same quiet rhythm over smooth stones, indifferent to whatever significance had unfolded beside the oldest tree the night before.
Nothing celebrated. Nothing announced that history had changed.
The gardener, already awake and moving among his herbs, offered a faint smile when he noticed her watching the stillness of it all.
"The Garden has never believed in ceremonies," he said.
