The Bramble Reaches were not a forest. They were a crucible.
From above, the tangled thickets resembled a rotted crown—circular, immense, unnaturally symmetrical, as though planted by hands that had never belonged to men. The trees here did not grow with time, but with intent. Their bark pulsed with vein-like roots that shifted slightly when unobserved, and their leaves whispered to each other in tongues not heard since the Unmaking.
Few dared enter.
None had ever returned whole.
And yet, this was where Haraza and Lirien now stepped.
At the command of a being without name—The Thirteenth.
In search of someone who had never forgotten.
The Warden of Thorns.
Even before the first step, the air began to taste different.
Not acrid. Not foul.
Just wrong.
Like memories misplaced.
Haraza stood at the cusp of the Reaches, his boots inches from the grasping roots that curled and uncurled like breathing serpents.
Lirien stood beside him, tension in her stance.
She'd gone silent ever since the Thirteenth spoke the Warden's name. She hadn't questioned the path, hadn't spoken a word of warning.
But Haraza could feel her dread.
("What is she?") he finally asked.
Lirien didn't look at him. Her voice was a blade dulled by time.
("She was one of the Accord.")
Haraza blinked. ("One of the Twelve?")
Lirien nodded. "She bore the Crown of Growth. The seventh pillar—Verdancy. Balance through flourishing. But she… she chose a path none of the others dared."
("What path?")
Lirien finally met his eyes.
("She chose to stay. When the others ascended, she refused to leave. She said the world needed a witness, not a god.")
("And the others let her?")
("They tried to erase her. She survived. But she changed.")
Haraza stared into the twisting woods.
("And she became the Warden.")
Lirien didn't answer. She didn't have to.
They entered together.
The Reaches were not quiet.
They hummed—not with life, but with remembrance. Each vine held a memory. Each twisted branch bore a voice. Some cried. Some sang. Some argued endlessly with themselves in languages Haraza had never heard.
And as they walked deeper, they realized there was no path.
No trail to follow.
Only choice.
Every few paces, the terrain split. The trees rearranged themselves in the corner of the eye. Roots reached out to offer themselves as bridges. The Reaches did not want travelers.
They wanted participants.
Haraza looked to Lirien. "If she's still here, why hasn't she left?"
("Because this is her body now. Her mind. Her memory.")
The vines rustled at the word.
Memory.
Haraza felt the Helm tighten against his skull. The fourth glyph still glowed faintly, echoing the seal he had broken in the Nythran Spine. But here, it trembled—not with fear, but kinship.
The Reaches weren't just alive.
They were aware.
By the second hour, the light had shifted.
The sun no longer reached the forest floor. Instead, it filtered through the canopy in warped prisms, bathing everything in colors that bled and flickered—shades that changed with each blink.
Time didn't behave properly.
Haraza found himself remembering things he hadn't thought of in years. Moments from Earth. Snippets of childhood. The smell of his mother's garden. The taste of powdered ramen. A warm, flickering screen in a silent room.
They weren't just memories—they were present. Tangible. Real.
Lirien suddenly stopped, breath shallow.
("Do you hear it?") she whispered.
Haraza turned.
The trees were singing.
A melody in no key, using no instruments, made entirely of breath and decay and light. And underneath it all… a voice.
A woman's.
Clear. Serene.
("Who walks with memory unshaped?
Who bears the Helm with guilt and grace?
Who enters without forgetting?")
Haraza stepped forward.
("I am Haraza Genso,") he called. ("Of Earth. Of Rift. I seek the Warden of Thorns.")
The trees quieted.
Then parted.
What lay beyond was not a glade. It was a memory made flesh.
A spiraling garden of impossible design—trees coiled into domes, flowers grown from dreams, statues that moved only when not looked at directly. At its center stood a throne, woven of living roots and obsidian vines, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
Upon it sat the Warden.
She was not beautiful.
She was not monstrous.
She was inevitable.
Her hair flowed like ink, but shifted to silver as Haraza approached. Her skin was bark, but smoother than silk. Her eyes held galaxies, collapsing and birthing themselves in endless dance. On her brow, a circlet of thorns glistened with dew and blood.
And she smiled without malice.
("You carry the Accord.")
Haraza knelt. ("I carry its burden.")
("That is the first lie it teaches.")
She rose, the vines shifting around her like loyal serpents.
Lirien bowed low.
("My lady.")
The Warden tilted her head. ("Ah. The last Oathkeeper.")
("I have no oaths left to keep.")
("And yet you stand,") the Warden replied. ("Which means something still binds you.")
Haraza stood slowly. ("You were one of them.")
("I still am.")
("But you stayed behind.")
("Because the others lost their way,") she said, turning. Her movements shaped the garden itself. Flowers bloomed at her steps, then aged into dust seconds later. ("The Accord became dominion. I wanted remembrance.")
Haraza approached her. ("Then help me. The seals—")
She raised a hand, and vines snapped up from the ground, halting him mid-sentence.
("You speak of the seals like they are locks. They are choices, Haraza. Each one you break brings the world closer to collapse.")
("I'm trying to save it.")
("No,") she whispered. ("You're trying to redeem yourself. And in doing so, you may damn us all.")
The vines tightened.
But Haraza didn't resist.
("I need to know why they were made.")
The Warden studied him.
Then lowered her hand.
They sat at the center of the spiraling glade, beneath a tree shaped like a spiral of hands.
The Warden poured them a tea that shimmered like oil, yet tasted of fire and memory.
And she told them the story.
Long ago, before the Accord, the world was raw. Elemental. Unshaped by will or form. Magic flowed freely, but so did madness. Every thought could become law. Every whisper could alter truth. Mortals became gods and died in seconds. Reality folded and reformed endlessly.
The Twelve were the first to hold still.
Each one took on a principle of balance—Time, Flame, Stone, Growth, Silence, Will, and more. They became anchors.
The seals were not cages.
They were weights—balancing the laws of the world against the chaos of the Rift.
The Accord was a treaty.
A promise.
To remember the balance.
But power twisted purpose.
The Twelve began to enforce, not guide.
They became rulers.
And the seals became chains.
The Warden had objected.
She was outvoted.
So she stayed behind.
("You were right,") Haraza said softly.
("No,") she said. ("I was true. There is a difference.")
He looked into her eyes. ("Then help me. I'm not like them. I didn't ascend. I don't want to rule. I just want to understand.")
She reached out.
Touched the Helm.
And for the first time since he arrived in this world, Haraza felt seen.
("Then you must walk the Spiral.")
("What is that?")
("The place where the Accord was born.")
Lirien inhaled sharply. ("That place is sealed. Lost beneath the Bedrock Sea.")
("Not anymore,") the Warden said. ("The seals are failing. And the Spiral stirs.")
She looked at Haraza.
Eyes solemn.
("If you truly want to restore the balance… then you must go to where it all began.")