Even in the vision, Lindarion could feel him. A will so absolute it pressed against his soul.
"The flame burns too long, and you cage it," Dythrael said. "The roots drink too deep, and you call it balance. But this world was meant to move, not stagnate. You would rather bind it in chains of eternity than let it live and die."
The silver-flamed being lifted his hand, the glow brightening. "Because to you, 'living' is devouring."
Dythrael smiled. "All life devours. You of all should know that."
He raised a finger. The light around the elves began to darken, one by one. Cracks formed across the plain, bleeding darkness that hissed like breath. The fledgling Tree trembled.
And then, just as Lindarion felt the world begin to collapse, someone stepped in front of him.
A woman. Her hair white as snow, her eyes bright blue, the same hue as moonlit ice. She was not of this vision, not part of the memory, but present nonetheless. Her form wavered like a projection.
Luneth.
