The humans glanced between them all, confusion thick in their faces. Savior in the caverns, prince in the trees, who was this man truly?
Lindarion stepped forward, his voice clear, unflinching. "I am Lindarion of Eldorath, son of Eldrin Sunblade, Prince of the High Court." His gaze swept the guards. "I claim passage for myself and those who follow me."
The guards exchanged a glance. One bowed immediately, his spear dipping low. The other hesitated, eyes flicking across the ragged humans, his mouth pressing into a thin line. But finally, he too lowered his weapon.
Tharion's voice cracked, breaking into the silence. "You… you are truly of Eldorath?"
Lindarion looked at him, crimson eyes steady. "Did you doubt it?"
Tharion dropped to one knee, his voice trembling with something like shame and relief both. "No, my prince. Forgive me. I did not recognize your face after so many years, but your blood speaks for itself."
The humans shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between Lindarion, the kneeling elf, and the towering city above. For them, this was another world entirely, one where they did not belong.
Nysha stood at Lindarion's side, her expression unreadable, but her shadows curled tighter, whispering against her skin like a warning.
The first guard gestured upward. "The council will wish to hear of your arrival, Prince of Eldorath. Few of our kin cross into this sanctuary unbidden. None bearing such a host." His eyes flicked again to the humans. "They will need to decide what is to be done."
The humans stiffened at the word. Decide. As though their lives were not their own to keep.
The commander's hand drifted toward his sword, but Lindarion raised one hand in silent command. The gesture alone froze him where he stood.
Lindarion's voice was low, calm, but edged with steel. "Then lead us. And tell your council that if they would decide the fates of these mortals, they will do so in my presence."
The guards bowed, then turned, their movements smooth, guiding them upward along the spiraled paths.
The humans followed reluctantly, awe and dread mingling with every step. The platforms groaned softly under boots not meant for them. Children peered from high branches, their wide elven eyes watching in silence as mortals scarred and bloodied entered their city.
Nysha leaned closer as they climbed, her whisper brushing his ear. "You've tied yourself to them in front of the council. Whatever comes next… you can't walk away from it."
"I never intended to," Lindarion murmured, his gaze locked on the golden shimmer of the World Tree beyond the city's edge.
Because here, in Lorienya, beneath the boughs of the eternal tree, his path was no longer hidden.
It was only beginning.
The climb took longer than Lindarion expected. Each spiraled path curved higher, winding around trunks so vast they could have been mistaken for cliffs. Lanterns hung from vines that glowed faintly with their own light, their illumination soft as moonrise.
When the last of the humans disappeared into a holding terrace below, only Lindarion was summoned onward.
The guards said nothing, only gestured for him to follow. He did so without question, though Nysha's crimson eyes tracked him from below like a blade in the dark.
The air shifted as they neared the uppermost platform. The murmur of the city dimmed, replaced by the slow hum of leaves that seemed to sing without wind. Magic was heavier here, old and thick, coiling like incense.
Two immense doors of living oak parted as he approached. Not carved, not built, but grown into their shape, leaves gleaming gold along the edges.
And beyond them lay the council.
The chamber was circular, its walls formed from the inner curve of a colossal tree hollowed yet still alive. Roots twisted upward into pillars, meeting at a vaulted canopy overhead. Sunlight speared through natural openings, scattering across pools of water set into the floor like mirrors.
At the far end, upon thrones carved from entwined ironwood, sat the rulers of Lorienya.
Vaelthorn Ironbark, the king, broad-shouldered even for an elf, his hair the deep brown of soil, streaked with age yet unbowed. His crown was no band of metal, but a circlet of bark and leaf, alive, pulsing faintly with the World Tree's power.
Beside him, Queen Sylwen, her beauty tempered with an authority that made her seem carved from the very wood around them. Her eyes were green, sharper than any blade, her hair falling like a river of bronze.
Lindarion remembered their faces. A festival, long ago, lanterns alight, his father laughing louder than he had ever heard him, the young prince darting between foreign banners.
They remembered too.
The queen's eyes softened briefly before hardening again. The king leaned forward, voice low, thunder rumbling through wood.
"Lindarion Sunblade. Son of Eldrin." His gaze raked over him, sharp, calculating. "What tide brings you into our boughs with such a host of mortals at your back?"
Lindarion stepped forward, unbowed, though the weight of their presence pressed like chains.
"The same tide that drowns the surface," he said evenly. "Maeven's brood spreads, the land burns. The humans you saw are all that remain of one refuge. I led them out."
A murmur rose from the gathered councilors seated along the edges, elves robed in green and silver, voices sharp with disapproval.
"Elves do not take in strays."
"Mortals are not our charge."
"They will bring ruin into Lorienya—"
Sylwen raised one hand. Silence fell instantly. Her gaze did not leave Lindarion. "Your father does not send word. Does Eldorath know of this march?"
The question twisted like a blade. Lindarion's jaw clenched. "Eldorath has not spoken with me in years. What I do, I do without his blessing."
The murmur sharpened into shock. A prince, cast adrift? A son of Eldrin, acting alone?
Vaelthorn's eyes narrowed. "And yet you wear your blood openly. You bring strangers into our sanctuary. Tell me, boy, are you heir to Eldorath's will, or rebel against it?"