Elara Thornécroft had always believed roots were patient.
Trees waited years to answer storms. Vines found cracks without anger. Flowers turned toward light without demanding thanks. The Verdant South taught that living things endured because they understood time better than people did.
Gate Eleven taught her that patience could be another name for fear.
The subroot passage trembled beneath her hands. Every root around Team Seven carried memory. Footsteps. Blood. Old academy panic. Servants running where nobles were never meant to see. Names whispered into wood because stone forgot too easily.
And underneath all of it, a small voice.
Sera.
Not spoken.
Remembered.
Elara did not know the girl. Not truly. She knew a sealed door from Kael's silence. She knew a grief-bloom that had opened black beneath his touch. She knew Cedric Valdrake's history had roots the game had never bothered to water.
Now the Garden knew too.
A root brushed against Elara's wrist.
Not asking.
Begging.
