The wind stirred the leaves. Far above, the stars seemed to flicker, once, faintly, as if echoing the truth of his words.
And deep beneath the earth, far beyond even the World Tree's roots, something old and cold turned in its sleep.
—
The training terraces of Lorienya unfurled across the forest's living heights, built not from stone but from the wide, braided branches of ancient oaks.
Morning light filtered through canopies of emerald, casting gold across the dew-slick platforms. The air smelled of sap, steel, and the sharp scent of mana.
Lindarion stood at the edge of the upper terrace, white hair catching the light, golden irises faintly reflecting the shimmer of the world tree beyond.
Ashwing perched on his shoulder, tail flicking lazily. Below them, Lorienyan soldiers trained, not with rigid formations, but with fluid rhythm, each movement part of the forest's own breath.
