Chapter 435: Power Of The Forest
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."
"These do." He gestured downward. "The ground shifts by a finger’s width every few minutes. The forest is rearranging its veins."
Ashwing craned his neck, peering over the edge. "That’s creepy."
Lindarion stood, fastening his cloak. "Creepy, perhaps. Necessary, certainly. Come."
—
The lower levels of Lorienya were seldom visited except by wardens and healers. Here the roots of the great trees intertwined like serpents, creating natural corridors that pulsed with bioluminescent moss.
Streams of mana trickled through them, visible as faint golden currents in the air.
Thalan met him halfway down the spiraling path. The teacher’s normally calm face was drawn tight with unease. "You feel it too," he said without preamble.
Lindarion nodded. "Since the ritual."
Thalan tapped the ground with his staff. The bark rippled slightly under the impact, as if it were flesh instead of wood. "The healers say the sap flows backward in some places. Trees that once bloomed silver now bleed amber. And animals have begun to act... strangely docile."
Ashwing made a small snort. "That’s not bad. Finally, squirrels that don’t throw nuts at me."
Neither elf replied.
They reached a vast hollow where several wardens knelt around a pool of luminous water. The reflection on its surface shifted between gold and green, never settling.
One of the wardens looked up sharply when Lindarion approached and bowed low. "Prince. The roots whisper of disturbance beneath the second layer. Something stirs."
Lindarion knelt beside the pool and dipped two fingers into it. The liquid was cool, too cool. His core resonated instantly, a low hum echoing through his bones.
The vision that came was brief but vivid: endless tunnels of intertwined roots, glimmering faintly; deep within, a hollow cavity filled with light, and at its center, something like a seed, black, fractured, leaking smoke.
He drew back sharply, breath unsteady.
Thalan frowned. "What did you see?"
"Not decay," Lindarion murmured. "Something sealed. Or trying to awaken."
Ashwing’s tail bristled. "You mean like an egg?"
Lindarion’s gaze flicked to him. "In a sense, yes. But what it will hatch into—" He stopped himself. "We need to go deeper."
The descent beneath Lorienya was like entering another world. The light of the surface dimmed until only the glow of their mana illuminated the tunnels.
The air grew warmer, thicker, alive with murmurs that vibrated in the chest rather than the ear. Even Thalan, veteran of many years beneath the canopy, looked unsettled.
After a while, the passage widened into a cavern large enough to house a castle hall. Roots hung from above like chandeliers, dripping sap that shimmered in the half-dark.
The center of the floor bulged upward, a mound of living wood that pulsed faintly in rhythm with Lindarion’s heartbeat.
He approached slowly. Each step made the mound glow brighter. Symbols began to emerge, ancient sigils burned into the bark, the same runes that had appeared in the underground village months before.
Thalan whispered, "By the stars... these are not Lorienyan marks. They’re older."
"They belong to the demi-dragon tribes," Lindarion said quietly. "I saw them when we found their temple. But what are they doing here?"
Ashwing fluttered to a low branch and peered down. "You think your world tree ate their city?"
"Or maybe," Lindarion said, placing his hand on the sigils, "their city grew into it."
The bark rippled beneath his touch.
[ Synchronization request detected ]
[ Source: Ancient Core Fragment – Dormant status ]
The same system voice. Cold, neutral, but somehow alive.
Lindarion hesitated only a second before whispering, "Grant partial access."
Light exploded outward, not blinding but pure. The sigils flared golden, spreading through the cavern like wildfire, weaving themselves into the walls. For an instant he felt the consciousness of the World Tree shudder, surprised, then accepting.
Images flooded him: demi-dragons tending roots, chanting in old tongues, offering shards of crystal to the heart of the tree. They had been guardians once, merging their bloodlines with nature’s core to sustain it through ages. When they vanished, their power didn’t fade, it slept.
When the vision faded, Lindarion was kneeling, breath heavy.
Thalan grasped his shoulder. "Prince?"
He nodded slowly. "It’s all right. The tree remembers them. And now... it remembers me."
Ashwing tilted his head. "So what did you do? Wake up a ghost?"
"Not quite." Lindarion looked toward the pulsating mound. "I restored the bridge between their essence and ours. It means the World Tree’s roots now reach the remnants of their old sanctums. Which means it can see further... and so can I."
Thalan’s eyes widened. "You’re linked directly to the forest’s consciousness."
"Temporarily."
The mound’s pulsing slowed, then steadied, as if satisfied. The low hum in the cavern softened into something almost musical.
When they returned to the surface, twilight had already fallen. Lorienya glowed more brightly than before, its lights now interwoven with threads of faint gold.
Children ran across the bridges chasing fireflies that weren’t entirely insects anymore; some were tiny orbs of mana, born of the merging flows.
Lindarion paused at the edge of the city, watching the spectacle. "They’re adapting faster than I expected," he murmured.
Thalan smiled faintly. "Perhaps the forest knows joy as well as power."
Ashwing landed on Lindarion’s shoulder, yawning. "You worry too much. Maybe the tree’s just happy."
Lindarion didn’t reply, but the thought lingered.