The words hung in the air like frost.
Lindarion's grip on his sword tightened. "Then why call me here? If the Tree already binds him, why disturb what remains?"
"Because," Elarian said quietly, "the seal is dying. And if you do nothing, both will collapse, the Tree above and the Hollow below. When one fails, the other follows. Balance cannot exist in halves."
The walls flickered again. Visions bled through the glass—forests burning, oceans boiling, the world tree splitting under black flame.
Nysha's voice trembled despite her poise. "You're showing him the future."
"No," Elarian said. "I'm showing him the choice."
The ground pulsed beneath them, slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat. The mirrors rippled, and Elarian's figure wavered. "He stirs," she whispered. "He feels your presence here. His gaze has already turned."
"Dythrael?" Lindarion asked sharply.
