The edge of the world didn't look like an end.
It looked like a garden.
A wide, green place, full of things that weren't supposed to grow together, snowdrop beside flamepetal, dreamvine tangled with bloodbark.
It felt… soft.
But not safe.
Like something was watching.
They stepped into it slowly.
No wind.
No sound.
Just the feeling that every step was remembered.
Not by them.
By something else.
"This is where names go when they're given away," Varn whispered.
Sera sniffed. "Feels like lies."
"Not lies," said Solin. "Just truths people don't want to hold."
In the middle of the garden stood a tree.
One tree.
Tall. Thin. Silver bark. No leaves.
Etched with names.
Too many.
Some glowed.
Some bled.
Some had been scratched out.
One pulsed faintly.
Not a name.
A shape.
A hollow curve.
Like the place where a name should have been.
"Elira," the tree whispered.
But not with its mouth.
With hers.
She staggered back.
It was her voice.
Then someone stepped out from behind the tree.
Not the shadow-being.
Not a beast.
Not a god.
A man.
Tall.
Eyes like mirrors.
A worn scarf around his neck.
He didn't smile.
Didn't frown.
Just stood.
"I've been waiting," he said.
The others tensed.
Elira stepped forward.
"You…"
"Yes," he said. "I gave your name away."
Her heart pounded. "You're my father."
He nodded.
But it didn't feel like a reunion.
It felt like a door closing.
"Why?" she asked.
His hands opened. "To protect you."
"By erasing me?"
His eyes dimmed. "By hiding you where the stories couldn't find you."
"You didn't hide me," Elira said. "You cut me out."
"And yet," he whispered, "you came back."
She stepped toward him.
Each step left a golden print on the grass.
"You don't get to decide who I am."
"No," he said softly. "But the tree does."
He pointed at it.
"At the end, you choose. Keep the name you built, or take back the one I burned."
Elira looked at the tree.
Her name—the shape of it—waited.
Like a gift.
Like a chain.
The others stood beside her.
No one said anything.
This choice wasn't theirs.
Just hers.
She closed her eyes.
Thought of the name he gave her.
The one lost in fire.
The one taken before she had a voice.
She thought of Elira, the girl who climbed mountains, soothed monsters, lit the dark.
She opened her eyes.
"I don't want the old name," she said.
"I want the one they call me."
The tree pulsed.
The name-shaped hollow twisted.
And then…
Elira.
Carved in silver.
A name not given by blood.
But by belonging.
Her father stepped back.
He looked tired.
Like someone who had been holding a stone too long.
He nodded.
Once.
Then faded.
Not in shame.
Not in anger.
Just…
Gone.
The garden began to vanish.
Not in fear.
But in peace.
As they walked away, the silver tree stayed behind.
One name glowing.
Not in sorrow.
In choice.