The silence stretched until it became unbearable, a living thing pressing down on the clearing. Even the leaves overhead seemed to hold their breath, as if the forest itself awaited his verdict.
Lindarion let it linger. Let them feel the weight of it, of him. His voice, when it came, was not loud, but it carried, each syllable striking like steel across stone.
"Stand."
The word rippled through the crowd. The elves hesitated, as though the command itself were sacred, then rose in near-unison. Their movements were reverent, every gaze fixed upon him with an intensity that threatened to smother.
Lindarion's golden irises swept over them. He did not smile, nor soften.
"I am Lindarion of Eldorath," he said, each word deliberate, measured. "But that name alone no longer defines me. The World Tree has seen fit to lay its mark upon me, and through it, upon all of you."
He paused, letting the meaning sink in. Even Ashwing's usual quips had fallen silent inside his mind.
