The grove held its breath.
Around them the companions murmured—small noises: a rustle of cloak, the soft scrape of a boot—but for Lira the world had grown narrow and sharp. The giant tree's voice folded into her mind like warm, deep soil being turned.
"You came," the tree rumbled, its voice older than the mountain, older than the storms. "Little flame, of the many hands. You have fed this root, and the root remembers. Sit close."
Lira's heart thudded. She took three steps forward until the tree's shadow pooled around her like a cloak. The lanterns along the grove flickered, blown by a wind she did not feel. Only she heard the tree's next words, clear as a stone bell.
"Once, another like you stood beneath me," the tree said. "She could not hide forever. She rose to meet the night, and she burned a path of both salvation and sorrow. You are not bound to repeat that path. Will you stand and fight as she did?"
