Chapter 22: Epilogue—The Garden’s Dawn

The Estate Reborn

Ten years had softened the estate's edges.

Where once there had been bone-white spires and screaming roses, now ivy clung to sun-warmed stone, and courtyards buzzed with bees drunk on nectar. Lyra's garden sprawled in every direction, a riot of color defying the gothic shadows of the past. Crimson peonies shouldered against cobalt irises; golden marigolds tangled with silver vines that shimmered like liquid moonlight. Only one hue was absent: black.

Lyra had forbidden it.

She knelt now in the heart of her sanctuary, dirt smudging her cheeks, her storm-gray eyes narrowed in concentration. At sixteen, she wore her lineage like a cloak—Seraphine's sharp cheekbones, Evangeline's defiant tilt of the chin, Jack's quiet watchfulness. Her hands hovered over a wilting rose, its petals trembling as she whispered, "Breathe."

The rose shuddered, its stem straightening, thorns retracting into velvet softness. A blush of pink spread across its petals, and Lyra smiled.

"Still playing favorites, I see."

She turned. Evangeline stood at the garden's edge, her daggers replaced by pruning shears, her hair streaked with premature silver. The Viper's edges had dulled, but her gaze remained sharp.

"Pink suits them," Lyra said, brushing soil from her hands. "Better than black."

Evangeline snorted. "Sentiment."

"You planted the peonies."

"They're practical. Bees like them."

Lyra rolled her eyes. "Liar."

The Scars We Keep

Jack found them arguing over tea in the solarium.

His scar had faded to a faint silver thread, visible only when sunlight caught it just so. He moved easier now, the thorns' weight lifted, though his hands still occasionally twitched for roots that no longer answered.

"Oren's back," he said, dropping a bundle of letters onto the table. "From the Capitol. They've asked him to consult on rebuilding the archives."

Evangeline sipped her tea, the ghost of a smile on her lips. "Tell him to send seeds. The Capitol's gardens are still pathetic."

Lyra grabbed a letter, her eyes skimming the elegant script. "He's coming here next month. Wants to see the irises."

"He'll criticize the soil pH," Evangeline muttered.

"He'll cry when he sees the peonies," Lyra shot back.

Jack watched them, warmth pooling in his chest. This was peace, he realized—not the absence of storms, but the grace to weather them.

The Storm's Whisper

Dusk brought the first rumble.

Lyra felt it in her bones, a vibration beneath the soil. She stood on the terrace, her garden stretching before her, the horizon bruised with thunderheads.

Evangeline joined her, her pruning shears traded for a dagger. "You sense it too."

Lyra nodded. "The storm's not natural."

"They never are."

Together, they watched the clouds churn, lightning fracturing the sky. Within the tempest, a shadow took shape—a figure with Liran's easy stride, his laughter echoing across the fields.

"Eva," the wind sighed. "Did you miss me?"

Evangeline's grip tightened on her dagger. "Stay here."

"No." Lyra's voice brooked no argument. "We face it together."

The Roots Remember

The storm struck at midnight.

Rain lashed the gardens, thunder shaking the estate's foundations. Lyra stood at the gates, her hands buried in the earth, roots surging to brace the walls. Evangeline and Jack flanked her, blades glinting.

The shadow stepped from the rain, Liran's face wavering like smoke.

"You're not real," Evangeline spat.

"Aren't I?" The shadow grinned, petals swirling in its wake. "The garden remembers, sister. It always will."

Lyra's roots lashed out, but the shadow dissolved, re-forming behind her. "You can't kill a memory, little gardener."

Jack moved first, his dagger slicing through the shadow's chest. It laughed, unraveling into mist.

"This isn't over," it whispered, fading. "The roots never forget."

The Morning After

Dawn found the estate battered but unbroken.

Lyra knelt in the mud, coaxing life back into trampled flowers. Evangeline surveyed the damage, her dagger still in hand.

"He'll return," she said.

"I know," Lyra replied.

"Are you ready?"

Lyra stood, her chin high. "I have you. And Jack. And Oren's peonies."

Evangeline's laughter startled a sparrow from the eaves.

The Garden's Promise

That night, Lyra dreamed of Seraphine.

She stood in a field of white roses, her scarred face softened by time. "You've done better than I," she said. "But the work is never done."

Lyra reached for her, but the dream dissolved, leaving only the scent of lemon and lavender.

In the estate's deepest cellar, a single Rosa Noctis bloomed, its petals edged in gold.

The garden remembered.

But so did they.