Beyond the veil of mortal understanding, where time wept and space folded in reverence, stood a sanctuary untouched by decay or desire. The Garden Beyond Time—a sacred realm veiled in silver winds and cosmic dew—existed not within the mortal plane, but in the very breath between creation and silence.
And here, Aralya waited.
The violet lotus that pierced through countless layers of reality now brought Zeirion to its heart, his ascent slow and deliberate, as if each step peeled away a layer of fate itself.
He emerged at the threshold of the garden—no gate, no barrier, only a sense of reverence that made lesser beings fall to their knees. The air was thick with the scent of starlight, and the trees bore leaves of translucent crystal, humming with the rhythm of the cosmos.
She stood beneath a flowering tree that bore petals of living memory.
Aralya.
Clad in robes of moonwoven silk, her silver hair danced with the wind, her gaze a pool of serenity and strength. She did not smile, not yet—but her eyes softened as she turned.
"Zei," she said, her voice softer than light.
Zeirion stepped forward, and for a moment, he hesitated—not out of doubt, but out of something far rarer in him: awe.
"I heard your call," he said.
"You always did."
They stood in silence, not because words failed them, but because silence was sacred.
Then he reached for her hand.
And she did not hesitate.
Fingers met. Worlds stilled.
It was not reunion. It was restoration. Two pieces of eternity rejoining after eons of fracture.
As their touch deepened, the garden bloomed anew. Petals of memory drifted through the air—visions of battles fought
side by side, of laughter beneath twin moons, of blood and sacrifice, and the quiet nights that followed.
"I feared this realm would forget you," she said, voice faintly trembling.
"I do not return to be remembered," he replied, eyes fixed on hers. "Only to be with you."
For the first time, she smiled.
But in the distance, the stars shifted.
The peace of the garden would not last.
Not yet.