Lindarion had not slept. He stood where the highest bridges met the great trunk, the wind whispering around him.
His white hair caught the morning, a streak of living light, and his golden eyes reflected the sun's rise with unsettling stillness. The Breath inside him was quiet now, purring faintly beneath his heartbeat, no longer wild, merely waiting.
Below, the city was waking. Elves moved along the suspended walkways, their voices soft but reverent. Since the duel and the change that followed, they had begun to bow when he passed, not out of duty, but instinct. He hadn't asked for it, yet it happened all the same.
He adjusted the strap of his cloak and glanced toward the training grounds far below. Thalan was already awake, guiding the youngest students through their early drills. The rhythm of their blades and steps pulsed like a heartbeat in the distance. Life continuing. Peace, fragile, rare, fleeting.
