He walked across the training field, boots brushing against grass. The soldiers noticed his approach immediately; conversation ceased, weapons lowered. Even now, weeks after his spar with Thalan, his presence drew silence like gravity.
He knelt beside the root, his fingers brushing its surface. Warm. Alive. But beneath that warmth, a faint vibration thrummed, like a heartbeat out of rhythm.
"Thalan," Lindarion said without looking up.
The Lorienyan teacher hurried forward, staff in hand. "My prince?"
"Has this root always pulsed like this?"
Thalan frowned, lowering himself beside him. He placed his palm against the living wood, and his eyes widened. "No. This is new."
Around them, the air seemed to grow thicker. The faint shimmer of mana brightened for a moment, then dimmed again. Some of the younger soldiers stepped back instinctively.
Ashwing fluttered down to perch on the root itself, tail flicking. "Something's moving under it."
