Cruzer stepped into the circle, and the song wrapped around him like a second skin—gentle but immense, carrying not commands, but invitations. Each voice wove a thread: dreams shared aloud, pains laid bare, quiet hopes left to root in the soil. It was not a meeting of strategy or decree, but of soul—every person, every story another note in the chord of becoming.
The Heartwood stood silent above them all, not watching, not judging, but being. Its bark bore ancient scars—signs of fire, of blades, of time itself—but from every wound grew new green. Light filtered down in shimmering strands, not harsh like the old towers of steel and glass, but soft, like memory finding home.
One by one, they took their place in the circle. Elara beside Cruzer, her hand now in his. Tesia, quiet and upright, her gaze tilted upward toward the tree's canopy. Zaya still humming under her breath, the last note of her flute-song curling around the space like smoke.
