While swords crossed like lightning and truths were spoken under the weight of silence and steel, in another corner of the castle, stillness settled like a veil of mist.
The sacred garden rested on the southern slope, where the wall curved gently to embrace the ancient forest. There, among beds of blue lilies and white oaks, Sylphie sat—her legs crossed, her eyes closed, her hands spread out on the damp earth. Her beige linen dress blended into the diffuse light that filtered through the treetops, and her loose hair, as pale as wet silver, seemed to float in the calm wind.
Before her, the trail of roots that spread out in a spiral marked the exact spot where the echo of Yggdrazil could be heard—at least by those who knew how to listen.
There was silence... but not the ordinary kind. It was a living silence. Breathing. Charged with something ancient. The leaves around her did not rustle. The birds did not sing. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
