It had been eight months since Korr left through the northern gate and the green zone had pushed nearly a mile from the shrine in every direction, the dead ground revitalizing steadily. Six living structures now lined the zone's inner edge for housing, storage and Aldric's expanded work station with the resonance array humming in its foundation. Two more where steadily going up on the south side, root channels already reaching into the soil before the walls were finished.
The settlement didn't have a name. People called it the green, or the shrine-town. Nobody had formalized it and Sera hadn't pushed. Names were for places that existed on maps, and places that existed on maps could be found.
Oswin had a new map on the shrine's root floor. Green zone in dark ink, dead ground in grey, trade routes in thin lines. Hauler caravans passing along the Barrens' edge, some stopping, most not. Population estimates in his precise handwriting. Two hundred and thirty-seven. Up from eighty a year ago.
Word had spread and that was the problem.
The riders came from the west.
Mira spotted them first — two figures on horseback moving at an easy pace along the green zone's southern boundary. No escort. No banner. Clothing that was clean and well-cut in a way Solarian military issue never managed, fabric dyed a deep blue that held its color even under the Barrens sun.
"Equion," Oswin said from the shrine doorway, squinting through the quartz-and-copper spectacles a refugee optician had made him three months ago. "The cut, the dye, the horses. Equioni manufacture."
Sera was already walking south. Mira fell in beside her. The southern perimeter was thorn vines and a single watch post — the new scout, a silent woman from the Equion borderlands, was already descending from it.
The riders halted at the green zone's edge. They didn't cross. The lead rider dismounted with the ease of someone trained in formal protocol — left foot first, hand on the pommel, boots meeting the transformed soil with a measured step. Young. Maybe thirty. Dark hair, clean-shaven, the kind of face that smiled before it spoke.
"Sera of the green zone." Not a question. "I am Cassian Vane, envoy of the Equioni Ministry of External Relations." The smile was warm and unhurried. "My colleague, Desra Moll." The second rider had stayed mounted. Older. Her eyes moved across the green zone's edge, the living structures visible in the distance, the trunk rising above everything.
"You're a long way from the western border," Sera said.
"We are." Vane's smile held. "Equion has received reports of a settlement in the Barrens that grows its own buildings. Our Ministry finds such reports interesting."
They sat in the common hall. Not the shrine — Sera had made that decision before Vane finished his first sentence. The shrine was for the community. This was external, and external meant Oswin taking notes and Mira standing near the door.
Vane across from her. Desra Moll by the window, watching the structures.
"The Barrens have been lifeless for centuries," Vane said. "Now there is soil that supports crops, buildings that integrate with a root network, and enchantments that don't fade." His fingers touched the common hall's table — standard wood, nothing special. "Equion values advancement. We would like to propose a trade arrangement. Equioni manufactured goods and raw materials in exchange for access to your botanical products and any knowledge regarding the resonance-based enchantments your craftspeople have developed."
Oswin's pen had stopped.
"What kind of access."
"Samples. Observational visits by Equioni scholars. A small permanent diplomatic presence — two or three people — to facilitate ongoing exchange." He listed them the way someone lists market goods. Calm. Reasonable. Each item small enough to sound harmless.
"We're a settlement in the Barrens," Sera said. "We don't have infrastructure for diplomatic exchange."
"Then infrastructure is something we could help you build." Vane's smile adjusted a fraction. "Equion has been sending aid to border settlements for decades. Roads, wells, construction materials. The Barrens are no one's territory. Any settlement here is independent by definition. Equion respects that independence. We're simply offering a neighbor's hand."
Mira shifted by the door. Sera caught the movement. Mira didn't like the word neighbor.
"We'll consider it," Sera said.
Vane nodded. "Of course. These things take time." He stood. "Before we depart — the structures. The ones that grow." He glanced toward the window where Desra Moll had been standing. "My colleague has been studying them since we arrived. She notes the root integration appears to be structural rather than supplementary. The buildings don't sit on the roots. The roots are the building."
Desra Moll's voice came from the window. Quiet. Precise. "Is that integration dependent on proximity to the central tree?"
The silence that followed was the kind Sera had learned to recognize from Korr. The kind that meant a question was more important than it sounded.
"We're still studying the parameters," she said.
Vane smiled again. "Of course. Thank you for your time." A small bow. "We'll be in touch."
They rode west. Sera watched them go from the common hall doorway. Two riders becoming small against the dead ground.
Mira stood beside her. "He asked one real question the whole time. The rest was cover."
"I know."
"He came for that answer. Everything else was making you comfortable enough to give it."
"I know."
Mira was quiet for a moment. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. I said we're still studying."
"You hesitated before you said it."
Sera didn't answer.
Desra Moll had been studying the living structures since they arrived. She'd counted them. Measured the distance from each to the trunk. Noted the angle of the root channels visible at the structures' bases. The question about proximity hadn't been casual. It was the confirmation of a hypothesis she'd already built from observation.
Sera walked to the shrine. The pulse was steady. The root warm. She sat against it.
Korr would have caught the question underneath the trade talk and shut it down before it was asked. Or answered with something false that sounded true. Or redirected the whole conversation toward a topic that made the question irrelevant. Four hundred years of reading people across empires. She'd had him for a year and let him walk away.
The warmth rose through her palm. No chamomile trace. Just the tree, patient and slow.
She closed her eyes and planned what to tell the scouts about watching the western approach.