They moved swiftly through Lorienya's spiraling paths, the morning mist beginning to burn away as the sun rose higher. The children training from the previous day spotted him and fell silent, bowing instinctively as he passed.
Whispers followed him like wind through leaves, some in awe, others in reverence. His connection to the World Tree had changed more than his strength; it had altered how the elves felt his presence.
By the time they reached the southern outpost, the air had grown heavier. The trees were older here, their trunks massive, roots tangled like sleeping giants. The light filtering through was dimmer, the air thick with the scent of ancient earth.
A group of Lorienyan wardens awaited them, five elves clad in bark-woven armor, eyes glowing faintly with the green of the forest. They bowed as one.
"Prince Lindarion," their leader said. "The readings came from the Hollow Glen. The mana veins there are… erratic. We dared not go closer."
