Jorghan's boots crunched softly on the mossy path leading away from Sigora's dwelling, the floating island's perpetual twilight casting long shadows from the bioluminescent vines that twisted around every structure.
The Sol'vur settlement hummed with subdued evening activity—elves sharpening blades, weaving essence threads into glowing armlets, and children chasing glowflies under the watchful eyes of matrons.
But his focus was singular: Sigora. Her words from their earlier council had burrowed into his mind like roots seeking soil, stirring the primal imperative that defined him. He needed to find her, to press the matter, to make her see the truth that only he could envision for their clan's future.
Her scent trail was unmistakable, a rich blend of sun-warmed soil, wild herbs, and the faint, underlying musk of her fertile femininity.
It led him past the central gathering glade, around clusters of woven huts suspended on vine bridges, and finally to the island's jagged edge.
