I should have been asleep when the mirror‑tree bloomed. Instead, the pressure of an unfinished letter to Auron kept me pacing my night‑balcony above Nightspire's new lilac beds. Moon‑grass rustled in distant Dawnroot Glen, whispering promises I could almost hear across realms. The air tasted of ironed silk—too still for late autumn—and the border of Afterlight on the horizon shimmered green rather than the usual opal.
That was the first warning.
The second came as a feather‑soft crack from the mirror‑tree seedling I had transplanted into a crystal urn on the parapet. I turned just in time to watch its apex split and unfurl a single, translucent petal the color of star‑smoke. Light pulsed inside—one beat, two—and then a voice lilted through my mind with the memory‑sweetness of bells I'd forgotten how to describe.
Sunless dawn approaches. Gather the sorrowless nectar. Shield your names.
The petal broke from the stem, drifted into my palm, and dissolved into frost.
I inhaled sharply. The rooftop garden, planted only two days prior, answered with a sigh: glass‑vine leaves rattled though no wind touched them. Underfoot, the lilac roots darkened as if drawing ink.
I summoned soul‑light into my fingertips, casting glow across planters. Each vine node glimmered silver, but some flickered black, as though something beyond reached in to replace dawn with midnight.
Ravan arrived before I could call. He wore a plain tunic, yet the obsidian circlet around his brow blazed, sensing threat. "The mirror‑tree?" he asked.
"Bloomed," I whispered. "Prophesied a sunless dawn, sorrowless nectar, and shields for our names."
He brushed shards of frost from my sleeve, eyes narrowing. "Custodians sent no warning star. This omen is older."
We fetched the Blind Archivist from his candle‑lit alcove. He ran trembling fingers over the frost residue still bright on my skin. "Sorrowless nectar," he mused. "That would be the first bloom of star‑blossom. It opens at the exact midpoint between twin suns—yet never under mortal sky. Only in utter darkness will it reveal."
"Star‑blossom lines Dawnroot's perimeter," I said. "But Glen shares sunrise every morning."
"Unless sunrise fails."
Those three words settled like anvils. Nightspire's sorcerers had once spoken of a solar lull: a brief cosmic breath that, if timed with the wrong ley‑pulse, would snuff the ephemeris of both suns over particular coordinates. Not true night, but an hour of absolute gray. A "sunless dawn" on its way.
Ravan barked orders. Vael soared off to rally scouts; Calia raced for alchemy satchels. We convened strategy in the Hall of Confluence, ringed by dawn‑scar runes older than Nightspire.
The plan unfolded swift: Ride before dawn, reach Dawnroot moments after the solar lull hits. Harvest star‑blossom nectar while petals open in darkness. Brew it into mirrored elixir, paint sigils of protection around tree and palace names. Without that, the vision suggested roots—names, identities—would be stripped when the lull reverted and Afterlight resumed.
But as we plotted routes, Captain Vael returned grim. "Root‑iron vault is breached. Ward‑smiths unconscious, fragment stolen."
Saboteurs again. Only Sarielle's scattered loyalists or some new faction could dare. If the thieves carried root‑iron into Glen while darkness reigned, the field would hunger itself feral.
Ravan's expression shuttered to war‑cold. "Twin mission, then. You and I harvest nectar. Vael hunts the thieves."
I strapped my soul‑etched blades while Calia pressed a phial of phoenix tear to my hand. "For the blossom," she said, "or for yourself if hope falters." Her smile tried to brave; it shattered my composure more than threat of cosmic silence.
We crossed the Veil Gate well before astronomical midnight. The sky on the Surface Realm side looked bruised, starless. Every torch in Ashvale flickered low; even the Custodian watchers above Glen paced uneasy across air like ghosts wrestling with new rules.
Priest‑children met us with reports: star‑blossom buds twitching, petals straining. No sound of raiders—yet the earth pulsed irregularly, as though waiting for heartbeat to cease.
We reached perimeter exactly as the horizon should have kindled—but instead the light halted, pooling beyond valley rim as if blocked by invisible dam. Color bled from the world. Grass dulled to pewter.
At that first breath of gray, star‑blossom bushes snapped open, petals curling back to reveal heart globes of liquid light—pure, sorrowless nectar. I sliced a globe free; nectar droplet hovered, refusing jar until Ravan bled shadow charm along rim. It fell, filling vial with aurora swirl.
We collected twenty before a tremor raced through loam. Far western flank rippled. Shadows detached from barley stumps—thieves on approach. Vael's battle‑cry echoed, wings beating hurricane. Steel clashed out of view.
Sudden scream—one thief stumbled into clearing, clutching steal‑box. Root‑iron fragment inside pulsed wildfire, already sprouting metallic vine that pierced his arm. He saw us, desperation in eyes, and hurled box toward mirror‑tree trunk. The artifact tumbled end over end; if it struck bark under gray dawn, corruption might anchor.
I sprinted—time elastic. Half‑world slow. Flask of nectar heavy in belt. Ravan's shadow burst beneath me, catapulting forward; his gauntlet grazed box, diverting arc inches above ground. It smashed against protective circle of runed pebble—lay still.
But root‑iron sprout shot upward, sniffing for living roots. Mirror‑tree vibrated, about to answer. I uncorked phial, splashed nectar over metallic vine. It hissed, color flooding petal‑bright, then calcified to glass. The energy redirected, instead of burrowing, blossomed outward in starburst crystals which embedded softly into soil. Safe.
The thief collapsed. Vael emerged carrying broken scythes. "Last of them scattered," he panted.
Darkness overhead wavered, thinning. Solar dam about to burst.
We raced along the grove, painting sigils. Ravan mixed remaining nectar with volcanic ash into luminous slurry; I traced each name: Dawroot Glen, Leora, Ravan, Nightspire, even Sarielle's ash placed near fence—better claim her echo than risk it unguarded. With every sigil completed, the world brightened shade.
Light snapped back, brilliant and sudden. Two suns overlapped again: original and Afterlight, singing harmonic. The nectar patterns sank into soil, anchoring roots with promise of sorrowless dawn—hope untainted by hunger.
In rising glow, the crystal starburst where root‑iron died refracted rainbow across grass. Children emerged, cheering. Priests wept; Custodian watchers etched runes midair, nodding approval.
That evening, back in Nightspire, the Mirror Wing stood utterly still—no cracks, no murmurs. Archivist reported Asterion constellation burning steady but calm. I entered rooftop garden and found new petal carved from midnight sparkling where mirror‑tree had bloomed. I pressed it into my journal next to half‑finished letter. It left imprint of faint starlines that spelled neither warning nor reward, but a single word—remember.
I will. I fall asleep remembering bread shared with rebels, roots that now know my name, and nectar that caught a falling sun. Tomorrow I will finish my letter to Auron, though I suspect he already feels the difference in the sea wind around his Isles. Roots carry messages faster than ravens once they learn to sing.