Lindarion stood alone, Ashwing curled around his neck like a scarf of scales. His gaze drifted across the forest, the endless sweep of green. For a moment, it seemed nothing stirred but the wind.
Then, light.
Not the dying sun, nor lantern-flame, nor the glow of resin. This light was different, golden, pure, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. It flickered at the edge of his vision, threading between branches, sinking toward the heart of Lorienya.
Ashwing lifted his head, slit-pupiled eyes narrowing. 'You see it too?'
"Yes."
The golden shimmer tugged at him, gentle yet insistent. It was not a call with sound, but with memory, like a half-forgotten melody slipping back into his ears.
Ever since childhood, mana had clung to him. It filled him, blessed him, marked him. Others trained years to sense its flow; for him, it had been as natural as breath. Eldrin had called it a gift. Others had whispered it was a curse.
