The air had weight, a damp, resin‑scented pressure that slid under armor and settled on the lungs like a silent verdict. Every root in the glade seemed to lean inward, bark pores flaring as if to taste each heartbeat. Pollen‑motes hung motionless between the figures, glittering in the greenish glow from the cage runes and giving every breath the look of visible thought.
When the blindfolded elder lifted his bark‑wrapped hand the hush turned absolute—no wing‑rustle, no leaf‑creak, only the soft keening of magic tightening through the vines. Even Sylvanna, who rarely stopped moving, felt her pulse slow, compelled by the gravity of his unspoken authority.
"Speak," he said at last, voice pitched so low the syllable seemed to rise from the soil rather than his tongue. "But know this grove listens not only with ears—but with roots, with breath, with judgment."
