The song of the forest lingered in Lindarion's ears long after it had faded.
By the time he reached the central bridge that wound toward Lorienya's heart, the light had already shifted, no longer morning gold, but the pale shimmer that meant the sun was passing its peak. The air was cooler, the sounds quieter. A city at peace, though too silent to be entirely at ease.
Nysha fell a half-step behind him as the guards of the High Council bowed and stepped aside.
The chamber beyond was grown, not built, hollowed from the trunk of an ancient tree so vast its inner walls pulsed faintly with green veins of living mana.
Silver moss draped the ceiling like constellations. The King and Queen of Lorienya, Vaelthorn and Sylwen Ironbark, stood before the council table surrounded by their advisors and the murmuring glow of spirit-lights.
