The third path leads to a garden.

But it’s a garden of death. Withered trees, blackened flowers, soil that crumbles to dust at your touch. At its center stands Thornwen, bound not by chains but by roots—corrupted, twisted things that grow from her own body, pinning her in place.

“Go away,” she says as you approach. “There’s nothing left here. Nothing grows. Nothing lives. I killed it all.”

“Thornwen, we’ve come to free you.”

“Free me?” She laughs, but it sounds like leaves crackling in a fire. “I am what killed the forest. I am why the land withered. Every seed I planted turned to ash. Every life I nurtured died.” The twisted roots tighten. “This is what I deserve.”

Seraphine and Aldric hang back, their faces pained. They’ve all been broken by the same lies, the same century of torture.

You kneel before Thornwen, placing the Seed at her feet.

“This is from your grove. Wren’s been keeping it safe. The real grove, in the real world—it’s still alive, Thornwen. The forest still grows. Life still flourishes.”

“Lies.”

“Then look.” You take her hand, press it against the Seed. “Feel.”

Light pulses. Green light, life light, spreading from the Seed through the corrupted roots. Thornwen gasps as connections form—real memories flooding in, replacing the false.

She sees Wren as a child, planting her first tree.

She sees the Thornwood growing, thriving, defending itself against the encroaching darkness.

She sees life persisting despite everything.

“It’s… it’s real,” she breathes. “They didn’t die. It didn’t end.”

“Life finds a way,” you say. “You taught that, three hundred years ago. And you were right.”

The corrupted roots wither and fall. Thornwen stands, trembling, reaching toward the sky with hands that have finally stopped shaking.

“My children,” she whispers. “My forest. They remembered me.”

She turns to her fellow founders, and for the first time in three centuries, all three are together and free.

“Now,” Seraphine says, her voice steel. “We finish this.”