The stairs gaped before him, an open wound in the earth, roots curling like ribs around a throat that dared him to step in. The golden orb hovered at the edge, its light spilling down the spiral as if coaxing him forward.
Lindarion's hand flexed on the hilt of his sword, but he didn't move yet. His breath was steady, but his core, his very blood, throbbed in time with the Tree's pulse.
Ashwing fidgeted on his shoulder, tail lashing like a whip. 'I don't like this. It feels like the whole tree is watching us.'
"It is," Lindarion said. His voice was calm, though a shadow flickered in his silver-gold eyes. "But so is everything else beneath the sun. At least this one speaks plainly."
Ashwing snorted. 'Plainly? It just told you to go down a creepy hole where people probably die. That's not plain. That's rude.'
The orb pulsed once. "Step forward."
The command thrummed through Lindarion's bones. Not compulsion, but expectation, heavy as law.
