He reached the high terraces where the council hall stood. Great roots twisted upward to form archways of living wood, their interiors gleaming faintly with veins of mana.
The sound of faint chimes echoed through the air, resonance crystals swaying gently, harmonizing with the flow of magic through the forest.
Inside, Queen Sylwen and King Vaelthorn waited. They had already heard the reports; their faces told him as much. Sylwen's eyes, the deep green of old forest moss, searched his face with quiet worry.
"You went yourself," she said. "The scouts spoke of something stirring beneath the southern roots."
"I had to see it with my own eyes," Lindarion answered. His voice carried calm authority, though fatigue wove through it. "It's not Dythrael. Not yet. But there's corruption in the mana veins, residual, scattered, as if something ancient woke for only a moment and returned to sleep."
Vaelthorn leaned forward slightly. "Ancient?"
