In the time before the measure of clocks, when rivers still kept memory, the gardeners of the Deep Orchard wrote the laws of growth not with ink, but with sap. Each seed was a syllable, each leaf a word; and when spoken together, they wove the world’s green grammar. The elders recorded these formulas upon scrolls of pressed pollen — a language meant to be grown, not read.
The Four Juices of the Stem
- Dorith — the sap that dreams in roots
- Phelûn — the water that remembers the rain
- Esair — the milk of blossoms that never open
- Gherat — the resin that seals thought into wood
Toward the end, small numerical sigils (resembling prices or measures) mark the weights of intention:
The digits are not amounts but rhythms — instructions for breath while reciting the spell.
“Let no letter fall rootless.
Let each mark return to soil.”
The Maharajagar 