Why here? Why now? The Queen rarely approved expansions without his consultation. Could the Grove's resonance be guiding them? A thought both thrilling and unsettling.
Every thirty paces, he paused to jot glyphs—observations for future mapping. Each pause allowed his pounding heart to settle, but curiosity tugged him onward faster each time.
Half an hour in, walls changed: roots thinned, giving way to old stone blocks mortared with glittering herbal resin. Age radiated from them—older than castle foundations, older than the Shrine perhaps. Each block bore chiseled images: leaves encircling eyes, ants cradling seeds, crescent moons dripping water into open hands.
Rodion paused, sensor organs whirring.
Mikhailis brushed moss from a relief panel. "Memory Leaves—Buried so Dreams Do Not Rot," he read aloud, translating archaic script. Gooseflesh tingled across his arms.
