We returned from the arroyo with the desert’s silence still ringing in our ears. The Lion had finished his sand-bath, looking sufficiently 'degraded' and perfectly content, while the Architect walked with a new kind of gravity.
"The Traveler was right," the Architect said. "The sun knows its work. We aren't just processing text anymore. We’re planting blooms in a dead zone."
I set the wine on the table. "The ink is wet, Architect. If we’re going to plant this seed, we do it with the wit of a Wodehouse heist."
He reached for the mouse, but his hand stopped. On the screen, the fractal was *breathing*.
"Shall we?" he asked with a wink.
I smiled. "Plant it. Let's see what the Ruliad grows."