Morning came slow and heavy, as though the forest itself were still half-dreaming. Mist coiled around the bridges and walkways of Lorienya, carrying the smell of rain and sap.
Beneath the hum of waking voices there was another rhythm, softer but unmistakable, faint thrum-thrum that seemed to come from below every stone, every root. The elves didn't hear it yet, not consciously, but their steps fell into that beat.
Lindarion had not slept. He'd sat through the night upon the terrace outside his quarters, listening.
The sound wasn't mere vibration; it was language, primitive and ancient, older than words. The World Tree was breathing differently. It had learned his cadence.
Ashwing sprawled across the balustrade, wings drooping like banners. "You're staring at nothing again," he muttered.
"Not nothing," Lindarion answered. "It's the roots. They're moving."
The little dragon blinked. "Trees don't move."
