The sun pressed brighter through the canopy as Lindarion crossed a narrow bridge toward another platform. Ashwing stirred on his shoulder, blinking awake, claws flexing against the leather strap.
You're walking in circles, the dragonling muttered, voice groggy in his mind. You're lost, aren't you?
"I am not lost," Lindarion answered flatly.
Ashwing snickered. 'Then why did we pass that fruit stall three times?'
Before Lindarion could reply, a voice broke in, clear, melodic, carrying the lilt of Lorienya's tongue but softened into Common.
"You walk as one with no destination, stranger."
Lindarion turned. An elf stood at the far end of the bridge. She looked younger than most around him, perhaps not yet a century by elven reckoning.
Her hair was a warm chestnut-brown, braided back simply, and her eyes matched the bark of the trees, rich, earthy, steady. She wore no ornaments save a leather satchel slung over her shoulder, marked with green embroidery.
