The drums began to sound, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the forest floor. One beat for the dawn, one for the oath, one for the march.
Elves assembled in formation below: the silver-clad archers, the warden knights, the druids cloaked in living bark.
Nysha's crimson cloak rippled as she looked down at them. "They're ready."
"Then we begin."
As Lindarion stepped forward, a ripple of silence spread through the crowd. Every eye turned upward to the terrace.
He raised his hand slightly, not in command, but in acknowledgment. "Sons and daughters of Lorienya," he said, voice clear, carrying without force. "We march not for conquest, nor glory. We march to preserve what still breathes. The forest that raised you. The sky that shelters you. The roots that remember your names."
