Rodion's soft click confirmed translation. Mikhailis exhaled, tension draining.
Elven lanterns flickered among tall ferns that glowed as softly as night-lights in a nursery. Each lantern was fashioned from a dried seed-pod, its papery skin etched with swirling runes that siphoned light from the fungus-beds and pulsed it outward in steady breaths. Beneath their gentle shimmer Thalatha led the procession, her opal armor whispering like rain against glass.
Mikhailis followed at a respectful distance. He kept his stride measured—heels coming down softly, shoulders back, never quite turning his head far enough to expose his spine. The elves behind him hummed in low harmony, voices weaving through the roots overhead. The melody rose and fell like a tide: three clear notes, one minor glide, then hush. A work chant, he guessed, or maybe a traveling prayer. Either way, the sound settled his nerves more than silence ever could.
