Where the Wind Begins
In the beginning, there was only wind. It whispered through jagged peaks and over wild meadows, threading itself through the petals of flowers that bloomed without name. No one walked these fields. No one dared. For it was said this land was guarded by silence itself—a silence not of emptiness, but of memory.
They called it the Blooming Silence.
And somewhere, far above the granite spires that clawed at the night, an angel watched.
Her name was Arathiel, keeper of the Midlight, and among the seraphim, she was known not for might, but for mercy. Her wings, long as thunderclouds, glistened like ice kissed by sun. Her robes—white at the shoulder, deep red at the hem—fluttered like banners of fire and snow.
For centuries, Arathiel had watched the world from the Celestial Veil. She had seen empires rise and fall, hearts break and mend, prayers lifted and forgotten. But it was the Blooming Silence that stirred her. This land was a mystery even to the heavens.
Here, time stood still. Here, no being was born, and none died. Flowers bloomed endlessly, untended by hand or rain. Stars hovered lower, as if listening. And Arathiel, drawn by a pull older than light, descended.
Touching the Earth
She touched the meadow on the third breath of twilight.
A thousand colors greeted her—scarlet poppies, golden daffodils, silver-blue asters. Each flower shimmered with an inner glow, pulsing faintly like hearts. The moment her feet touched the ground, the wind stopped. Not a petal stirred. She was alone, yet not.
Voices lived here—old, weary, yet alive. They did not speak in words but in the rhythm of blooming, the hush of dewfall. And as Arathiel stepped forward, she heard them all.
"Why have you come?" asked the voice of the Silence.She turned to find no source, only the vastness of sky and stone.
"To understand," she replied. "To change?" "No. To listen."A hush deeper than death followed. Then, like a sigh from a slumbering world, the flowers bent in unison. It was their welcome.
The Garden’s Memory
In time, Arathiel wandered the realm, her feet leaving no mark. She walked the silent groves, climbed the windless cliffs, and drank from crystal streams that ran without source. She began to understand.
The Blooming Silence was not a land, but a soul. A memory of a world that once was.
Long ago, before stars had names, this had been the heart of creation—a garden where mortals and immortals met. But pride poisoned it. War scorched its roots. A terrible betrayal, never spoken, fractured the harmony.
To protect what remained, a sacrifice was made.
The last of the caretakers, a mortal named Kaelen, bound his essence to the land, choosing eternal solitude so that life might continue in some form. His body became the peaks, his tears the streams, his breath the wind. His silence birthed the flowers.
No soul could enter without disturbing the balance. None but one who bore no intent to take.
And so, Arathiel wept.
The Shadow and the Song
It was then that the stars began to fall.
One by one, they dropped from the sky like fireflies drowning in night. The veil above thinned. A shadow was coming.
Far beyond the mountains, something ancient stirred. The Nether Chorus—beings of uncreation, jealous of form and memory—had found the Silence. Drawn to its purity, they sought to consume it.
The Celestial Council decreed the Silence be abandoned.
"Let it go," they said. "It is but a relic."But Arathiel knew better.
Within this fragile world lived the memory of all that was good. To lose it would be to forget why light ever chose to shine.
The Sacrifice
On the eve of ruin, Arathiel rose.
She climbed the highest spire, the one shaped like a reaching hand. The flowers bloomed furiously below, sensing what came. The skies cracked with silent thunder.
And there, as the shadow crept from the edge of time, Arathiel spread her wings. Her robes flared—a banner of sacrifice.
She sang.
Not with voice, but with her being. A hymn of remembrance, of Kaelen’s gift, of every sorrow that chose mercy over vengeance. Her song wove through the fabric of the realm, binding wind to petal, root to rock, star to soil.
And then, she gave herself.
Her form dissolved into light, her wings into wind, her soul into silence.
The land surged.
Every flower flared with divine fire. The mountains rang with song. The shadow met the bloom—and could not consume it.
Arathiel became the Silence.
And once more, the meadow whispered with peace.
Blooming Again
Now, they say that if you walk alone into a quiet field where stars hang low, you may hear it: the hush of wings, the breath of a song, the memory of a sacrifice.
And flowers will bloom at your feet.
Not for death.
But for remembrance.
For the world was saved not by war, but by the courage to listen.
