Goldlight on Aerthos came soft—golden light seeping through the tree-lines, the scent of wet earth rising from the terraces after the lantern rains.

For the first time in days, the city was still.

Prism was the first to break the silence.

“You ever notice,” she muttered around her ration bar, “that the locals love to make us touch dirt?”

Amaya didn’t look up from her data-slate. “It’s called restoration, not observation. Try it sometime.”

Rue stood a few meters away, arms folded, watching the elders mark the work sectors across the Grove. Her posture was all command—steady, unreadable—but something in her eyes was quieter today. Lighter.

Prism noticed.

“Boss looks relaxed,” she whispered. “That’s suspicious.

You sleep, or did someone finally knock the edge off you?”

Amaya’s tone was smooth, unbothered. “Maybe she remembered what peace feels like.”

Rue’s only response was a sidelong glance that made Prism flinch and grin at the same time. “Alright, alright—touchy before breakfast, got it.”

The Aerthian elders began distributing the bio-rakes—thin crystal rods that pulsed when pressed into the soil.

The Grove’s inner sections glowed faint gold beneath them, but one patch near the edge pulsed weakly, almost sickly green.

Luma and Nyra were assigned there.

Luma crouched, ears flicking at the hum of the rods. The soil looked brittle, as if burned from the inside out.

She sighed softly, kicking off her boots.

Nyra blinked. “Um, Luma? What are you doing?”

“Feeling,” she said simply, wiggling her toes into the cool dirt. “The soil needs to know who’s helping it.”

Nyra hissed under her breath. “You’re causing a scene.”

Luma giggled. “You’re causing more of one whispering about it.”

Her claws sank into the dirt. The hum changed—low, steady, answering. The soil warmed under her touch.

She closed her eyes, exhaled, and began to move her hands—slow arcs, small gestures that matched the Grove’s faint rhythm.

The hum deepened.

The brittle soil shimmered, veins of gold threading outward from her palms like ink blooming through water.

Nyra’s wings fluttered, eyes wide. “Luma… you’re glowing again.”

Luma smiled faintly, but didn’t open her eyes. “Not me. The Grove. It remembers.”

All around them, the dormant vines stirred—slow, cautious, like something waking from a long sleep. Flowers that had withered since the first solar drought trembled, then bloomed in muted color.

Across the terrace, Rue stilled mid-stride. Her hand hovered near the coils at her belt—not in threat, but instinct. The energy in the air had weight; it moved like breath through her chest.

“Commander?” Amaya asked quietly, following her gaze.

Rue’s voice was low. “Tell me you feel that.”

Prism blinked at the readings spiking across her wrist-comm. “Boss, it’s like she’s syncing with the Grove’s biofrequency—no tech, no relay. Just pure resonance.”

The elders murmured among themselves, half in reverence, half in fear.

One of them—a tall woman whose skin shimmered like tree-sap glass—approached and knelt beside Luma, whispering words older than Aerthos’ founding.

The vines coiled toward her voice, luminous and alive.

When Luma finally opened her eyes, the faint green patch before them had turned a deep gold. The Grove exhaled, and the whole valley seemed to breathe with it.

Rue’s jaw tightened. She looked from the soil to Luma, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes.

“Prism,” she said quietly, “record everything. And send a copy to my personal archive.”

Prism hesitated. “You think the Council’s gonna want—”

“Not for them,” Rue interrupted. “For me.”

The Grove’s glow rippled wider—gold seeping through the roots until it brushed against Rue’s boots. Her breath caught as the faint pulse ran up through the soles of her boots, through her legs—meeting the cold hum of the chains coiled around her waist.

The metal shivered.

Not like weaponry—like something alive that didn’t know whether to yield or strike.

Amaya’s voice was low. “Commander…”

Rue flexed her fingers once. The links slid loose, falling into her palm like liquid mercury. “Stand down. It’s reacting.”

Prism raised a brow. “To her, or to you?”

Rue didn’t answer. The golden light licked against the chains again, soft at first—then flared bright, forcing Rue to slam the links against the dirt. The contact sparked, both lights hissing out at once.

For a moment, the entire Grove went still.

Then Luma turned, eyes wide, dirt and gold smeared across her hands.

Their gazes met.

For a heartbeat, the Grove breathed through them both—wild, quiet, untranslatable.

The golden glow dimmed, settling into the soil like breath returning to a chest. A faint line of smoke rose where Rue’s chains had touched the ground.

“Commander!” Amaya’s voice cut through the stillness. “You all right?”

Rue flexed her hand. The metal in her palm was warm—too warm—but she nodded once. “Contained.”

The Grove disagreed. The nearest vines still trembled toward her, drawn by something they didn’t understand.

She crouched beside Luma, as if to check for vitals, but the air between them pulsed again. Her chains slid from her palm of their own accord, the end brushing the dirt near Luma’s fingertips.

Luma looked up, eyes wide. “You felt it too.”

Rue’s jaw tightened. “You lost control of the resonance.”

Luma shook her head, voice steady. “No. It reached for you.”

The words hit like impact. Rue didn’t answer. She reached out anyway, pressing two fingers against the inside of Luma’s wrist to check her pulse. The gold light there brightened at the contact, beating in perfect time with the faint shimmer running through the Commander’s chains.

Prism’s voice came soft over the comm.

“Commander, readings are doubling—your vitals and hers are syncing.”

Rue whispered back, “Stand by, Lieutenant.”

 “Copy.”

Amaya’s silhouette appeared a few meters away, deliberately facing the elders to give them privacy.

Rue didn’t move her hand. The rhythm between their pulses evened, then slowed until the Grove matched it—a single, steady heartbeat echoing through root and stone.

Luma exhaled, eyes closing. “It’s not trying to hurt us. It just… remembers balance.”

Rue drew her hand back as if burned, coiling the chain around her wrist again. “Balance doesn’t interest the Council.”

Luma’s gaze lifted to her, soft but sure. “Then maybe they forgot what life sounds like.”

The Grove stirred once more—leaves whispering agreement—and then fell silent.

Rue rose to her feet, voice clipped. “We’re done here. Pack up the equipment.”

Amaya glanced over her shoulder. “Commander—”

“I said we’re done.”

The elders watched in silence as the TBN Commander turned away, the faint gold from Luma’s hands still flickering across her back like an echo that refused to fade.

Amaya started to respond—but then the sound came: a soft gasp, followed by the dull thud of knees hitting dirt.

“Luma?” Nyra’s cry broke the stillness. She dropped to the ground, catching Luma just before she collapsed completely.

Rue froze mid-step.

Luma’s glow flickered, sputtered, then bled away entirely, leaving her pale against Nyra’s arms. The vines nearest her curled inward as if mourning.

Amaya was already moving, pulling a med scanner from her belt. “Heart rate dropping—she’s crashing!”

Rue’s chains stirred again, reacting to the panic in the air. She gripped them tight, forcing the links still. “Get her stabilized.”

Prism knelt beside Nyra, eyes flicking between readings. “Commander, we need clearance for the Aerthian healers.”

Rue didn’t trust her voice. The pulse of gold still throbbed faintly under her skin, the echo of their shared resonance refusing to fade.

She forced her tone flat. “Do it.”

Nyra looked up, frantic. “She’s not responding!”

Rue stepped closer but stopped herself just short of reaching out. Every instinct screamed to touch her, to see if the glow would return—but half the Council’s aides were watching.

Her jaw tightened. “Get her to the healers. Now.”

Two elders hurried forward, gesturing for the attendants. The vines at their command lifted Luma gently from Nyra’s arms, cradling her like the Grove itself was carrying her.

Rue turned away as they passed, the reflection of the golden light still painting her uniform.

Amaya’s gaze lingered on her. “Commander…”

Rue didn’t look back. “She’ll be fine. Debrief in one hour.”

She walked off before anyone could see her hands shake.

When she woke, the world smelled like rain.

Warm light filtered through a canopy of translucent leaves. Vines hung from the ceiling, their blossoms pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. The bed beneath her was alive—woven from Aerthian root-fiber that shifted gently with each breath she took.

“Easy, Little Glow,” Nyra murmured from nearby. “You nearly scared the elders into extinction.”

Luma blinked, her voice soft and cracked. “Did I… finish the assignment?”

Nyra huffed, wings fluttering. “If by ‘finish’ you mean resurrect a dying patch of sacred soil, then yes. You also shorted out three bio-rakes and made a Commander swear in front of priests.”

A faint laugh escaped Luma before fading into a sigh. “The Grove asked.....and I wanted to be helpful...”

Nyra perched on the edge of the bed, handing her a cup of nectar water. “Helped, sure. But the Council doesn’t see it that way. They’ve been sending messages since dawn.”

Luma frowned, taking a slow sip. “Messages?”

“Official ones.” Nyra’s antennae drooped. “They’re calling it an incident. Rue filed a containment report before sunrise.”

Luma’s heart fluttered uneasily. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine,” Nyra said quickly, too quickly. “Probably scaring diplomats somewhere. But the way they’re spinning it—”

A knock at the door cut her off. Two Aerthian attendants entered, their robes glimmering like woven moss. One carried a data-scroll; the other held a crystalline sigil stamped with the Council’s mark.

“Envoy Luma Nova,” the first attendant said gently, “a request for statement regarding yesterday’s resonance demonstration.”

Luma blinked, disoriented. “Statement?”

“For public record,” the attendant explained. “To prevent… misinterpretations.”

Nyra shot up. “She’s still recovering! Can’t this wait?”

The attendants bowed, unflustered. “We understand, but the Council seeks clarification before the story spreads further.”

Luma set the cup down, staring at her reflection in the amber liquid. “The story’s already spreading, isn’t it?”

“Half the city’s calling you the Grove’s Voice,” Nyra said quietly. “The other half’s calling you a hazard.”

Luma laughed softly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Both are wrong. The Grove doesn’t need a voice… and I’m not dangerous.”

Her fingers brushed the blanket. The vines beneath it responded, curling around her wrist in gentle affirmation.

“Tell them,” she whispered, “that the Grove simply remembered how to breathe.”

The attendants exchanged a glance, uncertain whether that was an answer. Nyra smiled faintly. “You heard her.”

As they left, Luma leaned back into the living bed. Outside, the Grove hummed—soft, protective, aware. She could feel Rue’s presence somewhere beyond the terraces, sharp and steady as a heartbeat she couldn’t shake.