Kaelen and the Whispering Gardens of Ilveris

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It wasn't a path that led Kaelen to the gardens. It was a scent. At first just a whiff, then a stream that settled into her senses like an ancient melody—sweet and moist, with an echo of moss, washed-out ink, and something that tasted like light. She rode on wordlessly, her eyes fixed on the front, though nothing could be seen but a greenish mist. Varaan stopped. His slate-colored wings fluttered slightly, as if unsure whether to offer shelter or flee. Kaelen felt it too: the gentle resistance in the air, like a place still deciding whether to enter. She slid from the saddle, placed a hand on Varaan's neck. He remained silent, but his gaze followed her every movement. A gateway of branches stretched before her—not wood, but living bark, suffused with pulsing light. It was as if someone had fashioned veins of gold leaf, woven into an arch that had no beginning and no end. Kaelen stepped through. Ilveris received her silently. But it wasn't silence in the true sense of the word. The air was thick with voices, barely audible, more sensed than heard. Flowers opened in slow motion, as if following an invisible musical score. Ferns unfurled their spirals like script, and the grass beneath her feet shrank back, not in alarm, but in respect—as if the gardens were testing who was passing through them. Kaelen held her breath. Every breath felt as if it changed her. The plants resonated. Not with sounds, but with vibrations that settled beneath her skin. A blue orchid cup emitted a salty whisper: "Longing is a root that never stops growing." A purple thorn bush sang softly: "Some truths bloom only in the shadows." And Kaelen, usually accustomed to staying on the move, stopped. Listened. The deeper she went into the gardens, the denser the web of meanings became. The voices grew not louder, but more precise, as if the world were revealing a fragment of truth with each blossom. Finally, she reached a clearing. In its center grew a tree, unprepossessing at first glance. No massive trunk, no sprawling branches. But its bark shimmered like hammered amber, and beneath its surface, lights flowed—slowly, rhythmically, as if the tree were thinking. Kaelen stepped closer, sank to her knees before it. The earth was soft, almost warm. With both hands, she groped among the roots until her fingers found something—not stone, not wood. Something smooth. Round. A seed. And it glowed. Not brightly, but internally—like a memory that couldn't be grasped. As Kaelen took it in her hand, she felt a pulse. Not loud, not intrusive, but strangely synchronized with her own heartbeat. She held her breath. And then she heard it: the garden. "What is to take root must be heard." It was not a command, not a riddle. Only a truth. And Kaelen understood: the seed contained not knowledge, but a choice. She could plant it—sometime, anywhere. And what grew from it would change her. Or everything.