The grove wall folded apart like a curtain stitched from breath and leaves. One cautious step carried Draven Arcanum—wearing the name Dravis—into the hush beyond, and the opening sealed behind him with a moist sigh, dimming the light as living bark knit whole again. His boots sank a finger-breadth into loam. Ahead, roots had braided themselves into uneven stairs, their curves soft with centuries of moss. Strands of lichen dangled like forgotten thoughts, brushing Sylvanna's hood as she slipped through after him. She exhaled a tight breath, fogging the chill air that seeped from every trunk.
Neither had time to study the lattice of interlocking branches overhead—a vaulted green ceiling shaped by patient centuries—because the forest itself inhaled. No birdcall, no rustle, yet something changed. A hush sharpened into tension. Wood creaked. Bowstrings whispered.
