"Lorienya…" Tharion whispered, his voice reverent. His brown eyes gleamed, his hands trembling. "We stand beneath the boughs of the World Tree. The heart of my people. The one place the corruption cannot tread."
Lindarion turned to him sharply. "Why?"
Tharion blinked. "What?"
"Why does the corruption not reach here? What shields this land?"
Tharion hesitated, then bowed his head slightly. "The World Tree is not just a symbol. It breathes life into Lorienya. Its roots drink the poison of the world, purging it before it can touch the soil. As long as it stands, Lorienya endures."
A ripple of awe swept the humans again, but Lindarion's eyes narrowed.
'Then this forest is not untouched. It is sustained. Maintained by a power that should not exist in this age.'
Ashwing's small voice chirped in his mind. It feels warm, Lindarion. Like when you… when you hold mana too much, and it burns. But not bad. Big. Bigger than you. Bigger than me too. I don't like it.
Lindarion exhaled slowly.
He had questions. Too many. But answers would not come here, not yet.
The commander stepped forward again, his voice uncertain. "If this place is safe… if this land is still whole… perhaps we can bring the others. The wounded, the children. Perhaps—"
"No."
The single word froze him. He turned sharply, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "No?"
Lindarion's gaze stayed locked on the World Tree in the distance. "This peace is not for you. It exists because of power that is not yours to claim. If you rush into it blind, you will be crushed by the weight of it."
The humans shifted uneasily, torn between hope and fear.
Nysha's voice was soft, but cutting. "He's right. This land doesn't welcome outsiders. It barely tolerates us standing here."
Tharion looked between them, torn. His people's sanctuary lay only a march away, yet he could feel the tension coiling between Lindarion and the others. Finally, he bowed his head.
"Prince Sunblade speaks true. Lorienya is… different. Even among elves, not all are welcome beneath the World Tree's shade."
"Then why," the commander asked harshly, "does it stand here while the rest of the world burns? Why are we left to rot while your forests thrive?"
Silence cut through the clearing like a blade.
Tharion flinched, his lips trembling, but had no answer.
Lindarion did. His voice was cold, quiet, but it carried. "Because the world is cruel. And because Lorienya can afford to look away while the rest drowns."
The words landed heavy. No one dared argue.
The forest swayed gently, as if mocking them with its serenity.
Lindarion turned at last, his cloak brushing grass still wet with dew. "We move. This peace is not ours to savor. If we linger, we draw attention we are not prepared to meet."
The commander clenched his jaw but gave the order. Reluctantly, the humans tore themselves from the rivers, the flowers, the birdsong, falling into formation once more. Their faces were pale, their eyes burning with frustration and loss. To glimpse paradise and be forced to march from it, Lindarion knew the wound it left would fester.
But he also knew it was necessary.
As they moved deeper into the treeline, Nysha walked at his side, her gaze sharp. "You already knew," she murmured.
"About what?"
"That we were under Lorienya. That the World Tree was here."
He didn't answer immediately. His hand brushed Ashwing's scales absently, his eyes scanning the canopy.
"…I suspected," he said finally.
Nysha's lips pressed thin. "And what do you intend to do?"
"Find out why it still stands," Lindarion replied, his voice like stone. His crimson eyes flicked once more to the shimmering boughs piercing the sky. "And whether it can be broken."
The forest stretched before them, vast and silent, the air alive with a peace too fragile to trust. And though the humans trudged with heavy steps, whispers of awe still clinging to their voices, Lindarion's mind sharpened on one truth:
If the World Tree was the last unbroken heart of the world, then it was not sanctuary.
It was the next battlefield.
—
The forest thickened as they marched, the roots rising higher, the trees weaving together until the canopy overhead seemed like a cathedral of green and gold. Sunlight poured through in long beams, and with each step the air grew heavier with the scent of moss, honey, and old magic.
Then the trees changed.
Their trunks widened, each broader than a keep's tower, their bark shimmering faintly with runes too ancient for human eyes to read. Bridges of living wood arched between them, woven from branches that had bent themselves willingly into shape.
Platforms of polished root spiraled upward, supporting houses that gleamed with carved stone and luminous crystal, their windows round and soft like blossoms.
The humans gasped, some dropping their weapons entirely as their eyes climbed the impossible height of the structures.
A city.
Not of brick or mortar, but of tree and leaf. Entire families of elves walked across high bridges without fear, their long hair swaying in the breeze, their robes embroidered with silver thread that caught the sun. Children with ears sharp as blades laughed as they leapt from root to root, guided by birds with feathers like liquid sapphire.
The humans stared in silence, and Lindarion knew what they saw. Not just beauty. Not just peace. But a world untouched by ash, untouched by Maeven's horror.
Nysha's expression didn't change. Her shadows twitched faintly, more restless here than they had been even in the caverns. "So this is Lorienya," she murmured. Her voice was flat, but her crimson eyes flicked between the platforms, calculating. "It looks like a dream."
Lindarion's jaw tightened. "Dreams are fragile."
Tharion, the brown elf who had led them here, broke from the formation with a reverence that made his steps tremble. His face shone with awe as he pressed a hand against the root of one of the great houses. His lips moved silently, as though reciting a prayer.
From above, a pair of elven guards descended along a spiraled walkway of woven branches. Their armor was sleek, silver-green, plates molded like leaves, their spears glowing faintly at the tips. They moved with practiced grace, their gazes cold and sharp as they swept across the human survivors.
The guards spoke in their tongue first, smooth, melodic, ancient. Tharion answered quickly, bowing his head low, his voice hurried, deferential.
Then one of the guards' eyes landed on Lindarion.
They froze.
The spear dipped, not in hostility but in recognition. The guard spoke again, slower this time, his tone softer but laced with shock.
Lindarion's eyes narrowed. He understood. The words were old, but they carried his name.
"Prince Lindarion… Sunblade."
The murmur spread like fire. Other elves, who had been walking calmly across the bridges above, now stopped, their gazes turning sharply downward. Whispers filled the air, his name carried in dozens of voices, some shocked, some reverent, others wary.