Lira didn't delay once the mission settled in her heart.
By late afternoon, the Grove was alive with quiet preparation.
She laid out her travel satchel on a smooth root near the portal, checking each item with practiced care: vials for living cuttings, preservation charms woven into silk cloth, a small notebook for observations, and a single, carefully wrapped pinch of stardust—kept apart, untouched, as if it might whisper if handled too often.
Serelyth leaned against a nearby stone, arms crossed, watching with an amused glint in her eyes. "You know," she said, "most people hear 'high windlands' and think: cold, loud, unpleasant. You hear it and think: interesting plants."
Lira smiled without looking up. "Plants tell stories. I just want to hear this one."
Renkai crouched nearby, tightening the straps on his bracers. His movements were efficient, but his attention kept drifting back to Lira, as if checking she was still there. "Windlands mean cliffs," he muttered. "And heights."
