The wind howled through the fissure, carrying faint whispers, not voices, but impressions. Regret. Grief. A lingering echo of something vast and dying.
He stared down into it for a long time, the golden glow of his irises reflecting against the mist. "This world has bled before," he murmured. "And maybe… this is where the scars remain."
Ashwing tilted his head, uncertain. "You think this is what's causing the mana to vanish?"
"I think it's connected," Lindarion replied. "Something woke up, or was disturbed. The balance is shifting again."
He stood, wind catching his cloak, and looked north, toward the faint green shimmer of Lorienya's borders in the distance. "We can't tell the council yet. Not until I know what this is."
Ashwing flapped his wings. "So, secret mission time again?"
Lindarion's gaze softened. "Something like that."
The dragon grinned, fangs glinting. "I knew it."
