The glyph floated.
It did not shine.
It revealed.
Not through light, but reflection.
Jevan stood beneath it, trembling. The piece of his tether-ring that remained hovered near his chest, orbiting the broken ruin of what had once been his defined self. Now, he was caught in the moment between identity and anonymity, between being written and understood.
The glyph of Recognition cast no shadow.
Only memory.
Only possibility seen for what it truly was: flawed, unfinished, but honest.
Aiden remained still.
The Sword of Becoming in his hand throbbed with unread words, its edge dulling—not from lack of use, but from restraint. Around him, the Garden had stilled. The Pact—those who remained—watched not as warriors, but as witnesses.
This was not a battle.
It was a reckoning.
And Jevan stood at its center.
The ground before him unfolded, not with force, but with invitation.
