Chapter 3

The glass ceilings let in the soft glows of multiple moons above, casting pale light onto a garden that seems to bloom with every breath. Giant blossoms unfurl and contract like lungs. In the center: Shizuku and Azalea sit at a carved marble table shaped like a blooming lotus.

Shizuku (narrating):
So after enduring an hour of my team getting distracted by rainbow-petaled lilies and whatever the hell that giant pollen lion was, I finally got a second alone with the

Floral Emperor. Azalea Flores. My cousin. Technically. Spiritually. Figuratively. Literally. Unfortunately.

Azalea Flores (he/him):
sipping tea made from his own petals
You’ve gotten better at diplomacy, cousin. Last time you visited, you burned half my archive because you thought a paper sprite was an intruder.

Shizuku (he/him):
To be fair, it bit me.

Azalea:
It was enchanted to test purity of mind.

Shizuku:
…Exactly. It bit me.

They sit in a lull. The air shimmers faintly—the ambient magic of the garden responding to the quiet tension.

Shizuku:
Let’s cut to it. You have the Earth Fragment. Kei’s shard. You know why I’m here.

Azalea:
I figured you wouldn’t just show up for floral tea and familial trauma.

(sighs, setting his cup down)

Yes. I’ve kept it hidden since I inherited it from my mother. And yes, I know what you're trying to do with the Sigil Chamber.

Shizuku:
Then you know we need all ten fragments if we’re going to stabilize the universe of Meeresboden. If we don’t gather all 10, reality’s going to start unraveling like Eris’ patience on a bad day.

Azalea:
(sharply) And you want me to hand over a primordial

shard like it’s just another trinket?

Kei’s Earth Fragment doesn’t just sit in a drawer, Shizuku. It roots. It binds. And here—it blooms. This entire kingdom depends on it.

He gestures, and the air itself pulses with the heavy, grounding energy of the Earth Fragment. Somewhere beneath them, the soil itself hums in agreement.

Azalea (quietly):
You think you can just take it and plant it in a chamber and not change everything here?

Shizuku:
I’m not asking lightly. I’m not asking as Emperor. I’m asking as family. As someone who’s spent six hundred years trying to avoid making another mistake with the universe.

Azalea:
…You sound tired.

Shizuku:
Because I am, Az. I’m tired of patchwork fixes and divine screw-ups. The chamber Asche built—it’s the only place stable enough to hold the fragments without tearing the user apart. We don’t need to erase the Earth essence here. Just… redirect it. Let Asche do his thing and it all be over.

Azalea:
(sits back, contemplating)
And if I refuse?

Shizuku:
Then I’ll respect it.
(pause)
But I’ll still try to convince you. Every damn year, if I have to.

Azalea stares at him for a long while, then finally rises. A massive vine curls around his arm as he walks toward a sealed altar covered in flora older than time. He whispers to the air.

Azalea:
…I’m not my ancestor. And I don’t have her clarity. But I trust you, Shizuku. Even if you’re an impulsive celestial gremlin.

A low rumble answers. The altar opens like a flower. Within: a small, pulsating shard of amber-and-verdant crystal. It looks like compacted life, compressed time and soil in a perfect fragment.

Azalea:
Take it. Carefully. You’ll only get one chance to align it.

Shizuku (quietly):
You won’t regret this.

Azalea:
I will. I already do. But I’d regret watching the universe collapse more.

Shizuku gently lifts the fragment, and for a moment, both their auras surge—Floral and Imperial, Earth and Water—before steadying.

Shizuku (narrating): So we had one more piece. One more thread toward the tapestry; and like every other piece of fate in this story, it came with a cost.