At twilight, the city gathered again, soldiers, mages, and artisans alike, in the amphitheater woven around one of the great roots. Lanterns floated among the leaves, lighting faces from every clan. It had been centuries since Lorienya last prepared for war.
Vaelthorn stood to address them, his voice carrying easily. "For too long we have tended our gardens while others bled. But the decay at our borders shows no patience for neutrality. We march not to conquer, but to heal. To reclaim balance."
He turned to Lindarion, who stood a few paces away, the light of the lanterns painting his hair with silver fire. "And the one who will lead this effort is not Lorienyan by birth, but by fate. The World Tree chose him, and through him, we see its will."
The crowd bowed, some in reverence, some in uncertainty, as Lindarion stepped forward.
