The prince looked over the crowd. "Tomorrow, we begin again. In smaller groups. Those who grasped rhythm will learn disruption. Those who lost rhythm will learn how to rebuild it."
As the soldiers dispersed, the last light of the sun fell through the canopy, scattering gold through his white hair. The forest wind brushed past him, whispering faintly, as though the World Tree itself approved.
When the others had gone, only Thalan, Nysha, and Ashwing remained.
"You've shaken their roots," Nysha said, half-accusation, half-respect.
"They'll need deeper ones if the storm comes," Lindarion replied.
"Do you always speak in riddles?"
"Only when the truth feels too heavy."
Thalan exhaled, looking out toward the departing soldiers. "I've trained with the forest my entire life, and yet today… I felt something else. As if the trees themselves were listening differently."
"They were," Lindarion said simply.
Thalan turned to him, brow furrowed. "You mean—"
