Velyrian stood frozen, heart pounding, as the air in the Chamber of Verdure thickened with ancient power. Not only him, as the council—twelve elders with bark-like skin and eyes that held the history of centuries— also sat in stunned reverence, as though awakening from a dream they never believed would end.
None of them spoke. None needed to.
Because before them stood the Verdant King, the last sovereign of the Elves, Elvarion Elaranil, thought to have vanished into the ether over a thousand years ago when the Divine Tree first fell silent and he decided to go on a pilgrimage. And yet, here he was—his presence commanding, his aura boundless. The leaves woven into his living cloak shimmered with an inner light, and his blade, the Rootfang, trembled softly with the breath of nature itself.
Velyrian dropped to his knees.
"Y-Your Majesty..." he whispered, tears already stinging his eyes. "The settlement… the Labyrinth horde… the Seed—"
