The first light of dawn crept shyly over the towering oaks and elms of Verdanthearth, their sprawling canopies casting long, dappled shadows across the gardens. The air was crisp, cool with the lingering touch of night, and carried with it the earthy scent of damp soil mingled with the faint sweetness of blooming jasmine. The garden stirred with the faint murmur of awakening life—a robin trilled a tentative melody from its perch atop a weathered trellis while a honeybee flitted lazily between blossoms, its hum a low, rhythmic counterpoint to the silence.

Brant knelt in the heart of it all, his fingers caked with the dark, loamy soil as he carefully worked the roots of a lavender bush into the earth. His hair, streaked with silver, hung loose around his face, catching the pale light with an almost ethereal sheen.

The simple green tunic he wore was already smudged at the knees and elbows, the hem damp where it brushed the dew-soaked grass. A gentle sigh escaped him as he leaned back on his heels, his hazel eyes, flecked with hints of green and gold, scanning his work. The lavender sat proud now, its slender stems swaying ever so slightly in the soft morning breeze, as though bowing in gratitude.

The garden itself sprawled like a living tapestry, every corner vibrant with color and life. Beds of violets and marigolds bordered winding cobblestone paths that disappeared beneath arches of ivy-covered wrought iron. Beyond the beds, fruit trees stood as silent sentinels, their branches heavy with the promise of ripe pears and apples. The centerpiece of the garden, a small fountain carved from pale marble, gurgled softly, its water catching the light in a fleeting dance of silver and gold. The faint scent of rosemary and thyme wafted from a nearby herb patch, mingling with the lavender’s subtle perfume.

Brant remained still for a moment, his hands resting on his thighs as he closed his eyes and simply listened. To him, the garden was not just a sanctuary; it was a balm, a rare reprieve from the lively court.