Later that evening, after Therin had retired to the small house below, Lira found herself sitting with Thalanir on a wide platform woven from living branches.
The night air was cool and smelled faintly of moss and blooming vineflowers. The green lights still danced among the trees, now slower, softer, like floating embers of an unseen fire.
Thalanir sat across from her, his white robes catching the moonlight, the green vines threaded through the fabric seeming to glow faintly. His hair shimmered like silver silk, and the delicate crown on his brow glinted each time the wind stirred the leaves.
"You wish to know more," he said, not as a question but a gentle observation.
Lira looked up from the flowers still in her lap, and nodded. "I do. About… your kind.
This place. How everything feels alive here."
Thalanir smiled, slow and serene. "Because it is. We are not separate from the forest, Lira. We are its song, its echo, its memory."
