Not all wounds healed with time.
In the shadows of the eastern mountains, where Umbrael's dark armies had scorched entire woodlands, silence reigned. Animals had fled. The wind carried only echoes.
Lucky traveled there alone.
She walked barefoot over ash. She whispered apologies to the trees. And in the center of the devastation, she knelt and buried her hands into the ruined soil.
And waited.
For hours, nothing.
Then, a tremor. A spark. A blade of green pushing its way through blackened earth.
It was a promise.
And Lucky stayed there, tending that first sprout, until it had grown tall enough to hold its own against the wind.