01-03-2026, 12:24 PM
The Brotherhood grounds lay hushed beneath winter. Snow pressed everything into gentler shapes: hedges softened to pale humps, bare branches etched like charcoal against a washed-out sky, stone paths reduced to suggestion. Somewhere beyond the walls, the modern world continued – traffic, signals, the electric thrum of a city that never truly slept – but here it was held at bay, muffled by cold and ritual and distance. Cali sat on the ground near the edge of the Celestial Gardens, a thick cushion beneath her, her boots tucked awkwardly beneath the hem of her coat. A knitted hat was pulled down over her ears, pale hair escaping in soft, disobedient wisps. Her breath fogged in front of her face, blooming and fading like a thought she hadn’t decided to keep.
She closed her eyes and hummed. It wasn’t a song with words, more a wandering melody, the kind her aunt used to murmur while turning the pages of her books. The sound vibrated low in Cali’s chest, steadying her breathing. The note shifted instinctively, adjusting to the space, to the cold, to the living things beneath the snow. She felt them instinctively. Not with her hands, though her fingers rested lightly on her knees, numb despite her gloves, but with something deeper, subtler. The plants slept, but sleep was not absence. Roots curled tight against frost, sap drawn inward, life banked like coals beneath ash. Shrubs along the garden’s edge leaned toward one another, sharing what warmth the earth would allow. Even the ancient trees, stripped bare, hummed faintly with patience.
Hello, she thought, fondly.
The response was not words. It never was. Just a sense of acknowledgment, a quiet rightness, as though her presence had been noted and accepted. She could help them if she wanted. The awareness came as easily as breath now. She could encourage the smallest stirrings, coax a whisper of green against the white, prove that the gift was real. That she was real. That she was chosen.
Her hum faltered.
No, she told them gently, the way one spoke to children who did not yet understand hunger or cold. Rest. Keep your strength. Spring will come.
The plants settled, content. Approval warmed her more than the coat ever could.
Cali exhaled slowly and turned inward, the way Seraphis had taught her. This was what she was supposed to be doing; why she was out here. The power was there, she knew that now. Vast and luminous and terrifying, like standing on the edge of the sea in a storm. You did not seize it. You did not command it. You opened yourself and let it take you, trusting it would not drown you. She tried to still her breath, to let herself outward, but instead distracted memory intruded. Moscow, grey with slush and exhaust. Her father’s voice, controlled and furious, when she said she was leaving university. Aunt Oleander’s laughter, bright and musical, and then the hollow absence where her name should have been. The box of books under her arm. Quillon’s smile. The Luminar’s gaze, heavy with purpose. The word Ascendancy, ringing like a bell she could never quite stop hearing.
And Samiel.
Her shoulders tensed. It all slipped away like water through clenched fingers.
She tried again. Let the thoughts pass. Do not push them away – accept them, release them. That was the trick. Surrender without losing yourself. Strength through yielding. Her hum returned, softer now, a single sustained note. She imagined roots, deep and dark and steady, drinking sparingly from frozen soil. The plants helped her then, lending their patience, their understanding of seasons. Of waiting without despair.
For a heartbeat – just one – she felt it.
A vast, serene presence brushed the edges of her awareness, cool and brilliant. The power did not rush her. It invited her. Wrapped her in the promise of endless motion held in perfect balance.
Her breath caught.
The world sharpened. Snowflakes seemed to hang, suspended. She could feel the shape of the garden, the slow turning of the earth beneath it, the sleeping green heart of the world.
Then excitement flared bright and unguarded – and the connection shattered.
Cali gasped, hands curling in her lap. The moment was gone. She laughed softly at herself, the sound misting into the cold air. “Soon,” she murmured, whether to the Power, the plants, or her own impatient heart. “I’ll learn. I promise.”
She closed her eyes and began again. The garden did not hurry her. Winter never did.
She closed her eyes and hummed. It wasn’t a song with words, more a wandering melody, the kind her aunt used to murmur while turning the pages of her books. The sound vibrated low in Cali’s chest, steadying her breathing. The note shifted instinctively, adjusting to the space, to the cold, to the living things beneath the snow. She felt them instinctively. Not with her hands, though her fingers rested lightly on her knees, numb despite her gloves, but with something deeper, subtler. The plants slept, but sleep was not absence. Roots curled tight against frost, sap drawn inward, life banked like coals beneath ash. Shrubs along the garden’s edge leaned toward one another, sharing what warmth the earth would allow. Even the ancient trees, stripped bare, hummed faintly with patience.
Hello, she thought, fondly.
The response was not words. It never was. Just a sense of acknowledgment, a quiet rightness, as though her presence had been noted and accepted. She could help them if she wanted. The awareness came as easily as breath now. She could encourage the smallest stirrings, coax a whisper of green against the white, prove that the gift was real. That she was real. That she was chosen.
Her hum faltered.
No, she told them gently, the way one spoke to children who did not yet understand hunger or cold. Rest. Keep your strength. Spring will come.
The plants settled, content. Approval warmed her more than the coat ever could.
Cali exhaled slowly and turned inward, the way Seraphis had taught her. This was what she was supposed to be doing; why she was out here. The power was there, she knew that now. Vast and luminous and terrifying, like standing on the edge of the sea in a storm. You did not seize it. You did not command it. You opened yourself and let it take you, trusting it would not drown you. She tried to still her breath, to let herself outward, but instead distracted memory intruded. Moscow, grey with slush and exhaust. Her father’s voice, controlled and furious, when she said she was leaving university. Aunt Oleander’s laughter, bright and musical, and then the hollow absence where her name should have been. The box of books under her arm. Quillon’s smile. The Luminar’s gaze, heavy with purpose. The word Ascendancy, ringing like a bell she could never quite stop hearing.
And Samiel.
Her shoulders tensed. It all slipped away like water through clenched fingers.
She tried again. Let the thoughts pass. Do not push them away – accept them, release them. That was the trick. Surrender without losing yourself. Strength through yielding. Her hum returned, softer now, a single sustained note. She imagined roots, deep and dark and steady, drinking sparingly from frozen soil. The plants helped her then, lending their patience, their understanding of seasons. Of waiting without despair.
For a heartbeat – just one – she felt it.
A vast, serene presence brushed the edges of her awareness, cool and brilliant. The power did not rush her. It invited her. Wrapped her in the promise of endless motion held in perfect balance.
Her breath caught.
The world sharpened. Snowflakes seemed to hang, suspended. She could feel the shape of the garden, the slow turning of the earth beneath it, the sleeping green heart of the world.
Then excitement flared bright and unguarded – and the connection shattered.
Cali gasped, hands curling in her lap. The moment was gone. She laughed softly at herself, the sound misting into the cold air. “Soon,” she murmured, whether to the Power, the plants, or her own impatient heart. “I’ll learn. I promise.”
She closed her eyes and began again. The garden did not hurry her. Winter never did.