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... wn root, nor from the breath of wind winding through the Garden's trees. It was deeper. Subterranean. Ancient.

And it pulsed in threes.

Elowen felt it while tending a memory grove—trees that sang the names of stories that had yet to be completed. Each leaf glimmered with a syllable.

Three leaves dropped, all from different trees.

Each inscribed with the same glyph:

The child—still unnamed, still wide-eyed—stood barefoot at the edge of the Citadel ...

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