The sky above Meadowlark cracked open in a slow bloom of rose-gold and lavender, the last stars dissolving into the hush of early morning mist. Beneath the ancient boughs of the Willow-Giant, a sacred tree whose limbs were said to murmur the songs of the first Harkers, four figures gathered in silent communion. Cloaked in patchwork garb and crowned with curious masks—each one a living emblem—they stood as echoes of something far older than themselves.

Cole Seymour was the first to step forward, hare mask glinting faintly with dew. Their fingers hovered over the strings of their turquoise guitalele, its worn wood warm with memory. They were the Storyteller, bearer of forgotten truths, the pulse of the past made present. Words itched at the edge of their tongue like nettle and nettleflower—ripe for harvesting, but dangerous when spoken in haste.

At Cole’s side stood Clémentine, delicate and decisive in equal measure, their goat mask tilted just enough to catch the rising sun. A ribbon-bound bell swayed at their hip with each step, the chime subtle, silver, prophetic. The Bellringer's breath fogged before their lips as they whispered to Cole, their voice a wind-carried omen. Where Cole held the weight of history, Clémentine carried the shivering spark of what might come to pass.

Perrine watched them both from where they sat on the moss-laced roots, moose mask sturdy and unmoving as ever. Their cloak was frayed at the edges, muddied by travel, but their posture remained steady. The Croon was the earth beneath them—a chaos well-tamed, or so it appeared. With a glance, they could unmake silence into song, stillness into storm. Their eyes, barely visible beneath carved antlers, were calm and ancient.

Then came Kingsley, in a flurry of wind and leaves, laughing as though the world was a tune only they could hear in full. Their tree mask bore etchings of fire and seed, a symbol of the Enkindled, of rebirth and play. They spun in a wide arc, arms outstretched, scattering fallen petals in their wake. The others gave them room—not out of fear, but reverence. For where Kingsley danced, life followed. They were disorder, made beautiful.

The four stood now in a circle beneath the Willow-Giant, the roots of their journey threading between their boots. Each one felt it: the low thrum of the Hollow Road beneath the soil, a call older than language, summoning them toward the North—a place untouched by their harmonies, where stories had yet to be written.

Cole strummed a single note.