24 – Graven Pointe

When I first glimpse Graven Pointe, I stop in my tracks, my proths sinking slightly into the soft earth – so different from Eden’s hard-packed streets. I’ve never seen so much green. Not even the manicured gardens of Fairebourne compare to this wild beauty. Grass springs from the ground everywhere, untamed and free, swaying in patterns that remind me of a capoeira dance. The blades catch the sunlight, creating waves of emerald and gold that ripple with each breeze. In Eden, grass is sold in precious patches, displayed outside wealthy homes like jewels. Here, it grows as if it has never known human restraint.

I grab handfuls and stuff them in my pocket, making Seven tilt his head in that peculiar way of his. The grass feels cool and alive in my hands, nothing like the dried, expensive sprigs sold in Eden’s markets.

“The grass here regenerates at a remarkable rate,” Seven observes quietly from beneath his concealing cloak. “Though taking samples is unnecessary. The root systems extend throughout the entire region, creating an interconnected network that-”

“Let her have this moment,” Asher interrupts gently, though his bright, blue eyes dart nervously between the buildings ahead. This is the first time I’ve seen him smile since we met, even if it’s tinged with worry. His hand rests protectively near Seven’s arm, ready to guide him away from view if needed.

Isaiah shakes his head at my grass-gathering. “It isn’t going anywhere.” He sounds confident, but I’ve learned not to trust abundance. Everything precious eventually disappears, like my brother, like our home in Eden, like the innocence of believing in safety.

A stream appears as if born from nowhere, running alongside the road into town. The water moves with such clarity that I can see smooth stones at the bottom, their colors enhanced by the crystal flow above them. When we stop to drink, the water tastes like liquid starlight, cool and sweet and impossibly pure. We gulp it down desperately, and I’m certain we’ll drain it dry, but the water level never drops.

“Where does this water come from?” I ask Isaiah, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“The Gawlkinn mountains.” He points to the peaks surrounding the back of Graven Pointe. Their snow-capped tops pierce the clouds, creating a natural fortress around the settlement. “It feeds Lake Brackenmoore as well as the town. The water never stops flowing, not even in the driest seasons.”

“You’re gonna like it here, little one,” he adds, and there’s pride in his voice that makes me believe him.

Papa tells Isaiah about Fairebourne’s waterfalls, how the clean water never makes it past Vanvale, leaving Coghaven with nothing but muddy creeks. His voice carries a hint of bitterness – not at Isaiah, but at the injustice of it all. Braam dunks his entire head in the stream, coming up with wet hair plastered to his face, talking about a bet he made with a probably-dead platoon mate about whether this place really existed.

Seven stays back from the water’s edge, Asher close beside him. I notice how Seven’s cloak moves oddly, as if he’s making microscopic adjustments to appear more human-like in his movements.

“We should move quickly,” Asher murmurs. “The traders who recognized us… they have friends here.”

The road into town winds between buildings that tell their own stories through their construction. Some are crafted from salvaged airship panels, their metal walls still bearing faded route markings. Others use a mix of wood and stone, with patches and repairs showing years of care and adaptation. Every structure seems to have been built according to need rather than plan, creating an organic flow that feels more natural than Eden’s rigid grid system.

The town pulses with life – farmers pushing carts laden with vegetables I’ve never seen, their produce still carrying traces of dark soil. Children weave between the carts, playing games with rules only they understand. People wander with no apparent purpose, so different from Eden’s regimented movements. The air carries the scent of baking bread mixed with something floral I can’t identify.

Seven pulls his cloak tighter when we pass a group of children. One small boy holds his arm at an awkward angle – clearly broken and poorly set. I see Seven’s hands twitch beneath his cloak, and Asher’s grip on his arm tightens.

“I could correct the bone alignment,” Seven whispers, his voice carrying a note of distress I wouldn’t have thought possible from a machine. “The current healing pattern will result in reduced mobility and potential complications in-”

“I know,” Asher murmurs back. “But we can’t. Not again.”

I remember what Asher told us about their flight from Graven Pointe – how Seven’s need to help had exposed them. The android’s shoulders slump slightly as the injured boy disappears into the crowd.

My own tension spikes when I spot the familiar uniforms of Protectors. Their boots are scuffed, their uniforms less pristine than in Eden, but they carry the same weapons. Isaiah must sense my fear.

“They’re different here,” he assures me. “Exiles themselves, sent as punishment but finding paradise instead. They only report baldagaars and major violations.”

“That statement contains several inaccuracies,” Seven says quietly. “During our previous residence, I observed seventeen instances of-”

“Seven,” Asher warns softly.

Seven remains silent, but I notice how still he becomes, like machinery powered down to avoid detection. There’s something in his stillness that feels like sadness.

Graven Pointe’s beauty deepens as we follow Isaiah further in. Unlike Fairbourne’s artificial perfection, this place feels alive. Gardens overflow with food plants – tomatoes climbing up walls, beans winding around poles, herbs I can’t name releasing their scent when brushed against. Trees stretch their branches wherever they please, creating patches of shade that people gather in to escape the heat.

When we reach Isaiah’s home, the change in him is immediate. He breaks into a run toward a house backed by a vineyard, where clusters of grapes grow fat in the sun. A water wheel turns lazily where the river passes, its creaking keeping time like a heartbeat. The mountains rise behind it all like ancient guardians, their peaks lost in clouds.

A little girl no older than seven plays in the grass out front, her face round and sweet as a river stone. Her skin matches the dark wet sand by the stream, and she squints past the sun at our approach. Beside her stands a boy who could be Isaiah in miniature, his posture already matching his father’s proud bearing.

In the doorway stands a woman with dark hair curled tight into ringlets, her skin smooth and flawless. When she smiles, it transforms her whole face into something radiant, and I understand immediately why Isaiah fought so hard to return here. She emanates the kind of warmth that makes you forget the world’s hardness.

The reunion brings tears to everyone’s eyes – even Seven makes a sound that might be the mechanical equivalent of a sigh. Isaiah’s wife, Lydia, embraces each of us in turn after he explains how we saved his life. When she reaches Seven, she pauses only briefly at the feel of him beneath the cloak, then hugs him just the same. Her kindness makes me wonder how many secrets this family already keeps.

Their daughter, Maggie, shows Papa a broken toy, holding it up with the pure trust children have in adults who might fix their treasures. It’s a delicate thing with thin metal arms and legs, a wooden head painted with a fading smile. Within minutes, Papa has it dancing again, its limbs moving in a jerky rhythm that makes Maggie squeal with delight.

Seven watches the repair with obvious interest. “The mechanism resembles early mobility assistance devices,” he observes. “Though miniaturized and simplified for recreational purposes.”

Maggie looks up at him, curious about his strange way of speaking. “Do you know other dancing toys?”

“I know eight hundred and forty-three variations of therapeutic movement exercises,” Seven begins, before Asher clears his throat meaningfully.

Inside, Lydia’s home feels like something from another world. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling, filling the air with unfamiliar spices. The furniture shows signs of careful repair and love, each piece telling its own story of survival and adaptation. She prepares a feast while Isaiah tells her about Arcmire, carefully editing the worst parts.

We eat like we’re afraid the food might vanish – fresh bread that makes my teeth ache with its softness, vegetables still warm from the sun, meat seasoned with herbs I’ve never tasted. Even Seven, who doesn’t eat, seems to relax as we gather around the table, though he keeps his cloak carefully arranged.

“I’ve never had kiju before,” Amari says, studying her cup. The golden liquid catches the light like trapped sunshine.

“I keep a small supply tucked away for occasions such as this,” says Isaiah. “Don’t worry. It’s well hidden from the protectors.”

“You’ll love it,” says Braam, launching into a story about a stolen bottle and a skinning that makes Lydia pointedly clear her throat.

“We are but weary travelers,” Papa interrupts smoothly. “I’m a maker. At least I was. I’m not sure what I am now.”

“I’m a dancer,” I add, catching Amari’s knowing smirk.

“Dancer,” Braam laughs. “Is that what you call it?”

“You should have seen her in the arena,” Isaiah says. “She is more dangerous than ten men.”

Seven tilts his head. “Based on observed combat efficiency and calculated force multiplication, I would estimate closer to thirteen point four men, assuming average physical capabilities.”

This makes everyone laugh, though I’m not sure Seven meant it as a joke. His analytical nature somehow makes the compliment mean more.

Later, Isaiah shows us to the “barn” – though it’s nicer than most homes I’ve known. The upper loft has been converted into sleeping quarters with eight beds along one wall, each made up with clean sheets that smell of sunshine. He explains that he hosts the transit guards who transport kiju to Fairebourne, taking care of them during their overnight stays.

Seven doesn’t sleep, of course, but he sits beside Asher’s bed, keeping watch while the rest of us settle in. I notice how he positions himself to monitor both the door and windows, his stillness now protective rather than fearful.

The kiju has made me dizzy, but in a pleasant way that makes the bed feel like it’s absorbing me. Amari’s bed is next to mine, and as we drift off, I watch Seven adjusting his cloak to better hide his metallic joints in the moonlight. Even here, in this sanctuary, old habits die hard.

“I used to tell stories to help children sleep,” Seven says softly into the darkness. “Would you like to hear one?”

Nobody refuses. His voice takes on a different quality as he begins – gentler somehow, yet carrying perfectly in the quiet barn. He tells us about a garden where broken things learned to grow again, where mechanical birds sang with real ones, where children taught machines how to dance. I drift off before I hear the ending, but maybe that’s fitting. Our story isn’t finished either.