Chapter 89

Kate’s POV

For a moment, I can’t answer. Her request completely freezes me because it comes with an almost authoritative tone, as if her life depended on seeing with her own eyes something that until now was only an echo of what I told her.

I hold her small face, trying to read in her features how much of it is need and how much is impulse. Her pupils are dilated in the middle of the lilac, shining among the tears that haven’t dried yet. I don’t see stubbornness, but a purity of urgency so strong I feel cowardly for hesitating.

“Maybe…” My voice falters before finishing the sentence. I don’t know if she’s ready to face the meaning of that sprout, what it carries of death and life.

It’s Dan who speaks in my place, firm and low:

“Show her.”

I turn my head slowly. He isn’t smiling, isn’t softening things. He just holds my gaze calmly, as if reminding me that denying would be the same as stealing something from the sister I fought so hard to get back.

Niv’leen spins quickly in the air, snorting as if it were the most obvious decision in the world.

“Just show it already. The little pest has the right. Growing up hurts, and it’s very annoying even for me, who stayed small until now, but hiding hurts even more. That’s why fairies don’t lie.”

Ashleen lets out a shaky sigh and slips from my lap to the floor. She grabs my hand again, squeezing tightly, almost pulling me.

I nod, breathing deeply.

“All right. Let’s see the seed.”

…

The Mother Tree’s corridor swallows us in silence as we walk. The living wood pulses around us, and with each step I feel as though it listens, follows, approves. The soft lights running through the veins move like underground rivers, and Ashleen doesn’t take her eyes off any of them.

At times, her hand slips from mine, as if fear still tried to seep between us, but soon she grabs again. I let her, without correcting, without calling attention. Every touch she offers is deeply welcome.

Dan comes right behind, his tail tracing slow curves on the floor, and Niv’leen floats ahead like an impatient guide. At each crossing of roots, he spins in the air and throws a “this way!”, even if no one had asked.

The path becomes long enough for the heart to start pounding in expectation. Ashleen’s, I feel through the small pulse in my hand. Mine, through the weight of Cindel growing inside me like an echo.

I almost speak, almost tell my sister she doesn’t need to be afraid, that we can wait a bit longer. But I swallow the words. Because, looking at her, I realize it isn’t fear shining in her eyes. It’s something greater.

When the passages begin to open, I smell the difference in the air: a sweet, earthy perfume, heavy with sap. I recognize it at once. We’re close.

The narrow ways widen suddenly, as if the Mother Tree had decided to open her heart to us.

The corridor spills into a circular space, wide but not empty. The roots descend from the walls and intertwine on the ground, forming a perfect ring, and in the center of that circle lies what I saw born the day before.

The plant is no longer just a sprout. The trunk is still young, but firm, as if sustained by the Mother Tree’s own sap. The bark is pale, with thin cracks that reveal an inner light—golden in some places, greenish in others. The broad leaves grow in opposite pairs, each one with veins glowing softly, like amber lines beneath skin.

The clarity streaming through the cracks above falls straight onto the plant, and the light refracts strangely, almost as if passing through liquid crystal. The result is a living stained glass spread across the floor, painting the moss in tones that shift with the wind running through the Mother Tree’s canopy.

Ashleen lets out a short gasp, almost a sob. Her hand squeezes mine harder.

“It’s… so big.”

“It’s grown more,” I say, throat tight. “It was much smaller yesterday…”

Dan says nothing. He stops a few steps from the circle of roots, his golden eyes fixed on the plant. His tail coils in a restrained gesture, as if every fiber of his body were holding back from drawing too close.

Niv’leen lands on one of the higher roots, arms crossed, and expression solemn.

I kneel beside Ashleen so we can look together. The smell is sweet, almost like fresh honey, mixed with the scent of damp earth. The air vibrates with a living calm, hard to describe, as if we were breathing inside a sanctuary not made by hands, but by choices.

Ashleen takes a step forward, hesitating before crossing the line of roots. She looks at me, as if asking permission.

“Go ahead,” I say. “It’s yours too.”

And then my sister steps into the circle.

The contrast is immediate. The light that was already soft intensifies around her, as if recognizing the presence. Ashleen raises her little hand slowly, and the plant seems to lean its leaves slightly in her direction, not as a physical movement, but as a gesture of attention.

Dan lets out a sigh that is barely a sound. I just watch, and, in that instant, it feels like Cindel is looking back at us.

Ashleen stops before the plant. Her hand hovers in the air, almost touching a leaf, but withdraws at the last moment.

“The little plant… does it know who I am?” My sister’s voice is a thread, full of hesitation and hope.

I feel my heart ache a little. I swallow before answering.

“I don’t know. Maybe not like we know, but in a different way… Maybe it feels, or maybe it remembers things Cindel saw.”

Ashleen furrows her brow, trying to decipher my words.

Before I reply again, Dan steps closer, up to the circle’s edge. He doesn’t enter. His tall body seems even heavier against the plant’s delicacy, and still, when he speaks, his voice is low, meant not to scare. He tilts his head toward Ashleen, golden eyes soft, yet serious. “Cindel was someone who stayed with me for a while. I met her years after saving your sister, and she made me believe I wasn’t alone anymore.”

Ashleen turns her face to him, curious. “She was your friend?”

The silence stretches. Dan takes a deep breath, and I see how costly the words are to him.

“She was. But some bad things happened. Not her fault, because she had no choice but to obey cruel people, and that’s why I ended up at an auction. But when she had the chance, Cindel decided her last act would be to save you.”

Ashleen’s eyes glisten with held-back tears again. Now that they’re side by side, I notice how tall Dan is, and how tiny Ashleen seems near him.

“Cindel did what few would for someone she didn’t know,” he concludes. “And that won’t be forgotten.”

Ashleen seems to absorb every word like one gathering seeds from the ground. She brings her hands to her chest, where once there had been ice and now only new warmth. She then looks at him sideways, sniffling, but there’s a small spark of a smile on her lips. “So… this is like… a living memory?”

“Exactly!” Niv’leen lifts a thin finger. “A memory that grows and breathes. And that will continue even after you and I are stardust. So treat it with respect, little pest, because not everyone gets such precious gifts.”

I let out a shaky breath, my chest warming with gratitude and pain. Because even Niv, with all his puffed-up pride, is speaking the truth: what we have before us isn’t just a plant. It’s proof that death and life can weave together until we no longer know where one begins and the other ends.

And Ashleen, though so small, seems to understand.

She stands still before the plant, as if seeking courage. Her fingers tremble in the air, hesitant, but then she breathes deep and stretches her hand again. The touch is light, almost a whisper of skin against leaf. And still, the reaction is immediate.

The leaves sway, as if a breeze had touched only them. The sap pulsing beneath the bark quickens its glow, spreading golden tones through the young body of the plant. A gentle warmth radiates in the air, not from fire, but from life.

Ashleen pulls her hand back suddenly, surprised, but not frightened. Her eyes widen, reflecting the light now bathing her face.

“She… felt me.”

“She did,” I say. “A part of her is in you, isn’t it? You know each other now.”

The tears fall before she even notices.

Dan kneels beside her, still without stepping into the circle, but places a steady hand atop her head, offering a heavy, sincere caress that makes her tuck her neck. And Ashleen doesn’t pull away. Quite the opposite, she leans entirely toward Dan, who draws her close and hugs her. The girl practically disappears in his arms, and I hear his throat rumble in a deep purr that brings me peace. I imagine it does the same for my sister.

“She knows me…” Ashleen whispers, burying her face in Dan’s chest. Her voice sounds muffled. “Even without ever seeing me… she knows I’m me.”

“And she always will,” Dan whispers to her. “As long as this tree grows, it will recognize you. It will remember you were the reason she chose.”

Ashleen lifts her still-wet face and looks at the plant again. Then Dan loosens his arms, letting her free to go. With a small yet decisive gesture, my sister walks to the trunk and lays both hands on it. The golden light intensifies, surrounding her. And I know, without needing explanation, that it’s her anfa’anam answering. It’s like the spark Cindel left inside Ashleen recognizes the other spark left in the seed.

The brightness gradually fades until the plant resumes its natural glow. Ashleen releases the trunk slowly, as if unwilling to end something precious. With a few tears in her eyes, she wipes them away with the backs of her hands.

“I’ll take care of her.” Her voice is soft, but firm.

Niv’leen puffs out his chest, wings fluttering with approval. “Very well, little pest. Then I name you Official Guardian of Shiny Plants, just as I am the Official Guardian of Disobedient Tails.”

Ashleen manages a timid smile, almost hidden, but true. She looks at me next, as if wanting to confirm that what she said was right. I run my hand through her dark hair in response.

Dan remains silent, but his tail slides across the floor until it brushes lightly against my foot. A small gesture, almost imperceptible, but one I recognize as silent support.

For a few moments, we just stay there, watching and breathing. The plant in the center of the circle seems more alive than yesterday. And then I realize: Ashleen hasn’t asked about Varkhael again, nor about anything related to our journey. All her attention is on that plant, on the life pulsing within it, on what might grow from here on.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting this realization fill me with gentle relief. Because maybe that’s how healing begins, not by forgetting the past, but by choosing to look at the present with hope.

I open my eyes again and see my sister still before the tree, far too small and, at the same time, immense in the promise she just made. And I think Cindel would be smiling.