Chapter 87. Rooted Flame

The letter came folded into a pinecone.

Not sealed.

Not scented.

Just tucked neatly, unnaturally, within the layered wooden petals—as if it had always been there, waiting to be discovered.

Jules brought it into Aria’s quarters with gloves.

“I found it on the western archway,” they said. “No one saw who left it. No trace of scent, no residue. But the tree nearby cracked when I pulled it down. Like it recognized the change.”

Aria raised a brow. “The tree?”

Jules nodded. “It bled. Sap, thick and dark. Almost black.”

They set the pinecone on her table.

Aria didn’t speak. She simply touched the edges. The cone was warm—not heated, just… alive.

She cracked it open.

Inside, the letter was folded four times, made of bark rather than paper. The writing etched in what looked like charcoal and ash.

Three words only:

I grew mine alone.

And beneath it, a glyph.

Not an eye.

Not a spiral.

A