"Too symmetrical," he murmured quietly, a shadow passing through his voice. "Too clean."
Sylvanna paused, his tone cutting sharply through her sense of wonder. Anxiety returned, coiling in her stomach as she recognized the edge in his voice—a signal that screamed danger.
Before she could question further, the gentle tranquility abruptly fractured. Above them, the golden sunlight dimmed rapidly, turning muted and unnatural. The mirrored lake rippled strangely, folding inward as if drawn toward some hidden center, pulling away from its pristine edges.
Sylvanna recoiled, heart pounding wildly as she watched the trees around them begin to move—roots sliding through the soil like serpents, branches repositioning themselves with precise, almost mechanical efficiency.
Panic edged her voice now, trembling through the tense air. "Draven. This is a script. A spell-sequence."
