The forest of Samera did not sleep.
As Manon and Rashien stepped deeper into its shadows, a silence unfurled neither hostile nor welcoming, but watchful. The trees leaned in, their ancient limbs rustling with whispers too old for words. Above them, a sickle moon carved silver through the black sky.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Rashien kept his distance, his magic drawn inward, banked like dying embers. The pull toward Manon hadn't lessened, but something had shifted. It was no longer hunger. It was reverence. Fear. Hope.
Manon walked ahead, her spine straight, her senses sharp. She felt him behind her like a second shadow but this time, he was not chasing. He was waiting.
They stopped at a small glade wrapped in glowing night-flowers, their pale blooms pulsing gently in the dark. Here, the land itself seemed to breathe.
"This place," Manon said, finally turning to him, "feels older than anything I've ever touched."
