Chapter 449: Effectiveness (5)
They moved swiftly through Lorienya’s spiraling paths, the morning mist beginning to burn away as the sun rose higher. The children training from the previous day spotted him and fell silent, bowing instinctively as he passed.
Whispers followed him like wind through leaves, some in awe, others in reverence. His connection to the World Tree had changed more than his strength; it had altered how the elves felt his presence.
By the time they reached the southern outpost, the air had grown heavier. The trees were older here, their trunks massive, roots tangled like sleeping giants. The light filtering through was dimmer, the air thick with the scent of ancient earth.
A group of Lorienyan wardens awaited them, five elves clad in bark-woven armor, eyes glowing faintly with the green of the forest. They bowed as one.
"Prince Lindarion," their leader said. "The readings came from the Hollow Glen. The mana veins there are... erratic. We dared not go closer."
"Show me," Lindarion said simply.
They led him down into the Glen, where the forest floor sank into an open hollow filled with mist. The roots here were enormous, larger than towers, spiraling into the depths.
Normally, they pulsed faintly with golden light from the World Tree above, but now, veins of dark green and pale silver flickered through them, inconsistent and unnatural.
Lindarion stepped forward. The air was dense enough to taste. When he reached out, the mana beneath his palm recoiled slightly, alive, but resisting his touch.
Ashwing’s voice flickered through his mind. ’That’s not normal. Even I can feel it. It’s like the forest is... afraid.’
"Something’s corrupted the flow," Lindarion said. His tone stayed calm, but the faint light in his eyes deepened. "Not a wound. More like an infection."
Thalan frowned. "Could this be Dythrael’s doing?"
Lindarion shook his head. "No. His corruption leaves shadow, not sickness. This is something else. Older, or weaker... I can’t yet tell."
He drew his hand back, flexing his fingers. The energy still lingered on his skin like residue, faintly cold. Then, for an instant, a pulse of light flashed from deep within the roots, a single spark that vanished as quickly as it came.
Ashwing flinched. "That came from below."
"Yes," Lindarion said. "And if the roots connect there, then whatever’s causing this disturbance is sitting under Lorienya itself."
Thalan stepped forward, gripping his staff. "Shall we descend?"
Lindarion looked toward the depths, where the roots twisted into the darkness like stairways of living wood. For a moment, silence held him. Then he nodded. "We’ll go carefully. If this reaches the World Tree’s heart, we’ll need to stop it before it spreads."
Ashwing’s tail flicked nervously. "And if it’s something worse?"
Lindarion’s voice was quiet, but certain. "Then we end it before the forest wakes screaming."
They began their descent into the Hollow Glen, light dimming with each step. The golden glow above faded, replaced by a pale green luminescence from the roots themselves. The deeper they went, the louder the sound of mana became, a soft hum that was neither alive nor dead, pulsing with unease.
Halfway down, Lindarion stopped. He could feel the current shifting again, threads of mana tugging toward him, as though the forest itself recognized him and sought refuge. That was when he saw it: markings along the roots, symbols not of elven make, but older. Curved, spiral, dragonic in origin.
Ashwing whispered, "Those are like the ones from the underground temple..."
"Yes," Lindarion murmured. "The demi-dragons once worshiped through the veins of mana itself. Perhaps their traces never truly left."
He ran his fingers along one of the marks. The moment his skin touched it, the hum shifted in tone, a resonance of recognition. The corruption thinned slightly, as though acknowledging him.
Thalan stared in awe. "You quelled it... with a touch?"
"Not quelled," Lindarion said. "It’s waiting."
He straightened slowly, eyes glinting gold. "The forest remembers more than we do."
Then, faint and distant, a low rumble echoed from deeper below. The wardens stiffened, weapons drawn. Ashwing hissed, "That didn’t sound like a tree."
"No," Lindarion agreed, hand tightening around his sword. "It didn’t."
The roots shuddered once, dust falling from above like rain. Then, just as quickly, silence returned. But in that silence, Lindarion felt it again, the wrongness. The sense of something ancient stirring beneath the roots, listening.
He turned to Thalan and the wardens. "Mark this place. No one comes here without my order. I’ll return once I’ve spoken with the council."
"And if the disturbance worsens?" Thalan asked.
Lindarion looked into the darkness below. "Then Lorienya may not remain untouched for long."
Ashwing clung to his shoulder, whispering low. "You think it’s starting again, don’t you? Like what happened before Eldrin vanished."
Lindarion didn’t reply. His golden eyes lingered on the corrupted light pulsing beneath the roots. Then, quietly, he said, "No wars begin in silence. But they always do end there."
He turned, cloak brushing against the mist, and began the long ascent back toward the city, the forest whispering faintly behind him, as though the trees themselves were praying he would be enough.
By the time Lindarion emerged from the Hollow Glen, the light had fully returned to Lorienya. Sunlight filtered through the branches, breaking the fog into soft gold and silver.
Yet the warmth no longer reached him. He could still feel the discord beneath his feet, the faint pulse of sickness threading through the roots of the forest.
The wardens remained behind to seal the entrance, murmuring quiet prayers in the tongue of the trees. Lindarion ascended the winding path alone, Ashwing perched on his shoulder, wings half-open for balance. The little dragon’s scales shimmered faintly in the light, but his usual playfulness was gone.
"That wasn’t normal," Ashwing muttered. "That sound, whatever made it, it wasn’t alive like you or me."
Lindarion’s expression stayed composed. "No. It was the echo of mana shaped long ago. Like a memory that never faded."
Ashwing snorted softly. "You say that like it’s supposed to make me feel better."
The prince said nothing more. As they crossed one of the living bridges toward the upper city, elven guards stepped aside and bowed, their faces etched with reverence that still made him uncomfortable.
The transformation the World Tree had granted him ensured no elf could meet his gaze without sensing its pull, the same way sunlight commanded attention even when veiled by cloud.
He could feel their thoughts like whispers at the edge of his perception, respect, awe, uncertainty. To them, he was not just Lindarion, the wandering prince. He was the one who had walked within the heart of the World Tree and emerged changed. To them, he was part of it now.