Morning light spilled through the canopy in soft strands, touching the wooden platforms of Lorienya's high city with gold.
The air was fresh, scented faintly of dew and sap, the quiet rustle of leaves whispering above the suspended walkways.
Lindarion stood alone on one of the upper terraces, cloak loose around his shoulders. Below, life had already begun, elven artisans shaping branches with song, children carrying woven baskets of fruit, wind-bells chiming faintly in the early sun.
It was the kind of morning that seemed untouched by history's weight, by blood or prophecy. For the first time in what felt like months, he could simply breathe.
Ashwing was curled on the railing beside him, still in his smaller form, tail flicking lazily. The dragon's bright eyes studied the city below.
"Everything's so… peaceful," he muttered. "No smoke, no screams, no one trying to stab us. It's weird."
Lindarion's lips quirked faintly. "You'd rather they tried?"
