The road to the orchard was paved in teeth.
Not bones—teeth. Hundreds of them. Worn molars. Incisors cracked down the center. Canines sharpened like they'd never known gum or jaw. They clicked beneath Zayan's boots like a chorus of quiet warnings.
He tried not to flinch with each step.
"This place," he murmured, "what is it?"
"An orchard," Ilya replied. "But not the kind that grows fruit."
She walked ahead, her cloak trailing in the breeze like a shadow pretending to be silk. Around them, the landscape stretched in stillness. No wind. No birdsong. Just trees—thousands—standing in organized silence.
Their trunks were the color of old bronze. Their leaves shimmered silver under an unseen moon, though no moon graced the sky. But what caught Zayan's breath were the fruits: perfectly round, deep violet orbs that pulsed faintly, like they were breathing.
"They look alive."
"They are alive," she said. "They hold voices."
"Voices?"
"Memories. Secrets. Whispers."
She turned to face him.
"This orchard was planted by the Listener."
"The one from the murals?"
"Yes. She believed no truth should die without being heard."
They stepped between the trees.
A hush fell like fog. The air became thicker—not hot, not cold, just present, like walking through unspoken thoughts. Zayan reached out to touch a leaf. It shimmered beneath his fingers and whispered a word he didn't know in a language he didn't recognize.
"Every tree is a witness," Ilya explained. "Every fruit a confession."
"Confession of what?"
"That depends on who picks it."
He stopped.
"You mean… it changes based on me?"
"Exactly."
She pointed to one of the largest trees, its trunk so wide it took five paces to circle.
"That one's yours."
Zayan stepped forward.
The tree hummed with recognition. Its roots shifted slightly, almost reverently. One of the violet fruits leaned toward him, dangling just out of reach.
"What do I do?"
"Ask the right question," she said. "And only then, touch the fruit."
Zayan closed his eyes.
He thought of his mother, her eyes worn from worry. His father, who vanished before his first memory. He thought of the dreams. The scroll. The Archivist. The sickness the world refused to cure.
"What do I need to remember in order to become who I must be?"
The fruit detached itself.
No hands. No strings. It simply let go—and hovered into his palm.
He held it. It pulsed once, warm. Then burst—not with juice, but sound.
A voice filled the orchard.
His voice. But younger. More afraid.
"They said I was cursed. That my blood held something old. My mother hid it. My father fled it."
Then another voice—female. Soothing, strong.
"Not cursed. Chosen. But you must remember. You must find the Third Seal."
Images flooded his mind—fire pouring from a river. A woman of smoke teaching children to breathe ash. A tower of glass screaming into the sky.
And beneath it all: a door. Buried. Locked by breath, blood, and belief.
Then silence.
Zayan gasped.
The fruit dissolved into ash, absorbed by the roots of the tree. He fell to his knees, sweat soaking his tunic.
"What… what was that?"
"A memory," Ilya said gently. "One you weren't ready for until now."
"Whose memory was it?"
"Yours. Or someone you once were. Or someone you're becoming. In the orchard, those lines blur."
Zayan stood, legs trembling.
"Is this why I've been dreaming of fire?"
"Dreams are the soul rehearsing for truth."
She guided him deeper into the orchard.
They passed a tree that wept. Its sap was clear and sang as it dripped.
Another bore fruits shaped like human ears. They whispered fragments of prayers, curses, lullabies in lost dialects.
Zayan felt them. Not just heard—felt. The ache of unburied grief. The hum of injustice denied. The sigh of a promise unfulfilled.
"How many voices are here?"
"More than stars. Fewer than lies."
"You really love talking like a riddle."
"And yet, you understand me."
He couldn't argue with that.
At the center of the orchard stood The Grove of Last Breath.
It was smaller. Five trees in a perfect circle. No leaves. No fruit. Just branches woven into the shape of a gate.
Ilya grew quiet. Her eyes dimmed.
"This is as far as I go."
"Why?"
"Because beyond this point… is the part of your story I'm not allowed to witness."
"Allowed?"
"Some journeys must be taken alone."
She pressed something into his hand—a small pendant, shaped like a spiral sun.
"When you forget who you are, let this burn. It will remind you."
"Burn?"
"Not in flame. In memory."
Zayan stepped through the gate.
The world changed again.
Not slowly. Instantly.
The trees vanished. The sky became parchment. The ground turned to ink. He stood in a room without walls, filled with books that breathed.
Each spine expanded and contracted like a lung. Some whispered. Others moaned.
In the center stood a single scroll, suspended mid-air. Unlike his, it was bound in red thread and sealed with three glyphs.
As he approached, they unraveled.
The scroll opened.
Words inscribed themselves in light:
THE THIRD SEAL – The Breath That Names the Flame
To cure the sickness of the world,
you must name the fire it fears.
Speak the forgotten illness.
Name the hidden profit.
Call the lie by its true name.
Then say:
"Allāhumma aj'al li lisānan ṣādiqan wa qalban salīman, wa iḫrij al-haqqa min fī, kamā aẓharta n-nūra min z-zulmah."
(O Allah, grant me a truthful tongue and a sound heart, and bring forth truth from my mouth as You brought light from the darkness.)
Zayan whispered the words.
The scroll burned—without flame, without ash. It sang as it vanished.
And in its place stood a mirror.
Within it: himself.
But older. Scarred. Eyes steady. Cloak marked with the seal of the Listener. Hands glowing with the fire of healing.
The mirror whispered:
"Now the true sickness begins."
And shattered.
Zayan turned.
The orchard was gone.
Only sand remained. And the wind.
And in the far distance—a city rising, shaped like a lung made of stone.
He stepped forward, the pendant warm in his grip.
"Let's begin the cure."
End of Chapter 4
Would you like me to continue to Chapter 5 – "The City That Forgot to Breathe"?