The next morning broke softly over Lorienya. Dawn bled gold through the canopy, painting the upper leaves in molten light while the forest floor remained caught between shadow and morning mist.
The great roots of the World Tree glowed faintly underfoot, humming with slow, ancient rhythm, like a sleeping heart beneath the world.
Lindarion was already awake.
He stood on the training grounds before sunrise, long before the first soldiers arrived. The dew still clung to the grass, and the scent of moss and bark filled the air.
His white hair caught the dawn, his golden eyes calm, unreadable. He wasn't waiting, he was remembering.
The stance was different here, the rhythm of the ground unfamiliar. Lorienyan soil was soft, yielding; the air heavy with mana. Every strike felt slower in such balance. In Eldorath, the air had been sharp, the land dry, each motion faster, crisper.
He adjusted, as he always did.
