The sun drifted lazily through the sanctuary’s canopy. Garlan sat cross-legged, Marenna against him, her arms intertwined with his. The silence between them was not empty. It was shared.

  — We’re not leaving, he said simply.

  She turned her head toward him, surprised, but said nothing.

  — Not yet. You’re growing here. You ground me. And I… still have too much to learn.

  From a distance, Virellia nodded slowly. She had asked nothing. But she approved.

  Thus began the months of rooting.

  Garlan left the sanctuary three times a week. Beyond Virellia’s protection, the world was harsher, crueler. But also truer.

  He returned to the Primordial dragons—the ones who had passed fragments of their wisdom to him. Skjoldür, Kazuhan, and Darak’Thar, the dragon of stone. With each of them, he repeated, refined, confronted. He trained in ice, in gales, in the bowels of stone. He faced their trials a second time, but this time with awareness. For his breath. For his mastery.

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  He learned to measure his blows, to anticipate, to endure. His body grew denser. His strategy sharper. His mana flowed steadier. Each partial defeat taught him an angle. Each slow victory, a patience.

  Meanwhile, Marenna blossomed.

  Her bond with the earth had become instinctive. She could feel a root awakening meters away, or the mana shifting in the morning dew.

  Green scales had spread lightly across her shoulders, and at times floral patterns bloomed on her skin with her emotions. She had learned not to hide them. They were part of her.

  Virellia did not train her. She accompanied her. One word a day. One question. One silence.

  Marenna had become at once gentler… and more dangerous.

  Their reunions after each of Garlan’s journeys were quiet. He would return injured, exhausted, and she would heal him with a touch—always without incantation. Their mana bond had grown so steady they no longer needed words.

  They did not make love. They made a circle. Fusion. Rest. Reconnection.

  Six months passed.

  Marenna now walked with a newfound certainty. A branch would bend beneath her steps. Moss would glow faintly when she passed.

  Garlan could sustain his armor of fire in active combat for more than ten minutes. His eyes no longer burned—they glowed softly.

  One evening, lying together, Garlan murmured:

  — When you’re ready, we’ll leave.

  Marenna smiled.

  — Tomorrow, I think.

  And the forest breathed gently around them.