Dawnroot Glen had been alive only six weeks, yet already it felt older than any map that tried to claim it. Moon‑grass shimmered knee‑high across the basin, interlaced with gray‑grain tassels and thin rows of glass‑vine whose petals caught sunbeams like stained windows. Every morning the field hummed—no longer the teeth‑aching hunger of root‑iron, but a low, contented drone, as though earth rehearsed lullabies for itself.
We returned on the first day of Frostmonth with wagonloads of saplings—lilac and demon star‑blossom bred to share soil. Calia perched atop crates, issuing instructions while Vael glided overhead, scanning for raiders. The west hills had grown restless: hirelings of dispossessed lords who believed anything that fed both realms threatened their return to power.
Ravan dismounted beside me, shaking ash from cloak hem. "If they attack," he muttered, "we respond with shield, not sword. This place must never become a battlefield."
"Then we build walls of song," I said, pointing to choir of children practicing dawn hymns near mirror‑tree trunk. Their voices wove through air, catching on wind like ribbons and knotting among leaves. The trunk glowed faint in reply—each note a promise to balance.
Our first order of the day was the Naming. Archivist maintained that all living constructs—cities, ships, even gardens—found stronger footing when they heard their names spoken by many tongues. So we gathered a circle: priests, demon ward‑smiths, mortal farmers, orphans, sky‑legion fliers, and three Custodian watchers who had arrived days earlier clad in pale stardust cloaks. Custodians did not interfere; they observed and, if impressed, inscribed deeds among constellations. Having them here was both honor and pressure.
Calia stepped forward, holding a bowl filled with soil from Nightspire's terrace and a handful of glittering river pebbles from Aurelian delta. She poured them together at the mirror‑tree's roots, spoke first: "We name you Glen of Dawnroot—where silver morn meets mortal bread."
One by one, voices joined, each adding accent, hope, little joke. The mirror‑seed trunk brightened until facets reflected every speaker's face, even mine—though my reflection smiled with a softness I hadn't felt since the scaffold years ago. When the final child whispered her kitten's name for the field—"Shiny Home"—the roots quivered, sending ripples through grass that danced clockwise, a circular bow.
Light drifted upward, forming tiny runes that crackled and vanished. Archivist nodded in satisfaction: "It remembers."
We spent afternoon planting star‑blossom saplings along perimeter—rows of five, one mortal child partnering with one demon apprentice per hole. They argued about depth, laughed at worms deemed ambassadors between realms, and traded stories the way merchants trade coins. I watched, shoulder to shoulder with Ravan, while Custodian envoy fixed their unreadable starlight gaze on scene, recording something unseen.
When sun leaned westward, Vael swooped, landing with dust plume. "Scouts spot riders—dozen—cresting Ashvale road. Weapons sheathed but banners black."
Ravan cursed softly: lords of old Ashvale likely come to stake claim. He turned to me. "I'll parley. You stay—protect mirror‑tree."
"No." I tightened glove strap. "We face them together. Field must see both crowns stand as one."
Calia eyed us, worry lines deep. "Take Graygrain loaf," she offered, thrusting warm bread wrapped in linen. "Best peace offering in two realms."
We rode out on ordinary horses—nightmares would scream threat. Vael glided circles, talons ready. Dust resolved into riders in patched armor; their leader, a gaunt woman with iron circlet, reined in. Her horse looked hungrier than any of them—evidence of the famine that still gnawed at counties outside treaty aid.
She raised gauntlet. "Emperor. Witch‑queen. You sow fields where my ancestors died. By what right?"
"By right of hungry stomachs," Ravan answered evenly. His gaze flicked to scrawny child riding beside her, clutching dull sword. "And of futures that deserve bread, not bones."
I added, "No taxes, no tithes demanded. All may reap if all will tend."
Her eyes narrowed. "Words from palaces." She spat dust. "Tomorrow a lord still starves."
I guided mare forward, broke loaf, steam curling in cold. "Share food with me—taste my oath." The scent drifted; horses stamped. Child's eyes widened.
The woman dismounted, hesitation trembling limbs. She accepted half loaf, tore a bite, chewing slow. Tears sprang unbidden—salt of emptiness meeting bread.
Ravan spoke softly: "Stay. Bring your people. Become Glen wardens. Land remembers grief; let your roots teach it peace."
She dropped to one knee. "My name is Brina Ash‑Mark. I pledge scythe and sword to Glen." Ten riders followed, kneeling.
We escorted them back. The children cheered; priests fetched soup. I tasked Brina with western watch and gave her rusted scythe a new amethyst whetstone imbued with dawn‑light.
That night festival fires dotted basin. Custodians approached at ridge; their leader—a figure translucent as fog—raised star‑forged tablet that burned runes, then bowed. No words, but message clear: probation lines shifting again, favorable.
In quiet, Ravan and I walked perimeter. Moon‑grass brushed knees, whispering names of each new guardian under starlight. "Balance holds," he murmured.
"For now," I replied, remembering Auron's caution: weed daily.
We reached mirror‑tree. Its trunk hummed stronger, new ring of growth glowing faint rose. I placed palm; instead of empty ache, I felt gentle hum of shared bread moment. A new memory I would not trade away. It filled hollow with warmth.
Ravan covered my hand with his. "Roots remember names," he said. "And names remember us."
"Soon we'll need nursery for seedlings," I mused. "And library for stories so field never hungers for them."
"Stories, I can supply," he chuckled. "Centuries full."
I leaned against him, watching lilac and glass‑vine intertwine under torchlight. Field between suns no longer borrowed hope from our sacrifices alone; now it grew its own, layer by layer, name by name.
Above, the Custodian star that once burned judgment dimmed to ordinary sparkle, indistinguishable from constellations that spelled nothing at all—just night, wide and patient. And in that quiet expanse, I pictured terraces of Nightspire blooming with mortal flowers, Ashvale barns stuffed with silver grain, and children's laughter echoing across mirrors too busy reflecting dawn to court despair.
Balance demanded vigilance; but for this single turning of the world, I allowed myself rest, confident roots would keep singing our names till morning.