Chapter 450: Effectiveness (6)
He reached the high terraces where the council hall stood. Great roots twisted upward to form archways of living wood, their interiors gleaming faintly with veins of mana.
The sound of faint chimes echoed through the air, resonance crystals swaying gently, harmonizing with the flow of magic through the forest.
Inside, Queen Sylwen and King Vaelthorn waited. They had already heard the reports; their faces told him as much. Sylwen’s eyes, the deep green of old forest moss, searched his face with quiet worry.
"You went yourself," she said. "The scouts spoke of something stirring beneath the southern roots."
"I had to see it with my own eyes," Lindarion answered. His voice carried calm authority, though fatigue wove through it. "It’s not Dythrael. Not yet. But there’s corruption in the mana veins, residual, scattered, as if something ancient woke for only a moment and returned to sleep."
Vaelthorn leaned forward slightly. "Ancient?"
"Yes," Lindarion said. "Before the rise of either Eldorath or Sylvarion. Before our songs named this forest. It carries traces of draconic magic, the same that ran through the demi-human temples I found to the west."
Sylwen exchanged a look with her husband. "The demi-dragons were said to have perished when the First Flame dimmed. Their altars were buried before our ancestors came here."
"Perhaps," Lindarion murmured. "But their echoes remain. The markings I found were similar to those in that ruin. I think their mana lines intersect beneath Lorienya."
Ashwing lifted his head proudly. "See? I told you dragons leave marks that don’t fade."
Vaelthorn’s gaze shifted briefly to the small dragon. "And you are certain it isn’t a threat, little one?"
Ashwing puffed up, clearly pleased at being addressed. "If it was, we’d already be running. Probably screaming too."
Sylwen allowed herself the faintest smile before her tone turned serious again. "If what you say is true, then the balance of the forest might already be shifting. The World Tree protects us, yes, but even it cannot endure poison in its roots forever."
Lindarion inclined his head. "That’s why I came to warn you. I’ll remain near the southern convergence for the coming weeks, to study the flow directly. If it worsens, I’ll act before it reaches the heart."
"You would take that burden alone?" the king asked.
Lindarion’s golden eyes met his evenly. "I’ve borne heavier."
The silence that followed was not of doubt, but of recognition. Both rulers knew better than to argue with the one who had already stood within the divine current of their guardian tree.
Sylwen spoke softly. "Then may the forest guide your path, Lindarion of Eldorath. We will place our faith in your vigilance."
He bowed slightly, then turned to leave.
Outside, the day had grown brighter, though a faint haze still lingered in the southern air. The wind carried whispers through the canopy, words without form, like distant singing.
Ashwing stretched on his shoulder, watching a group of children running across the bridges far below. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "if the demi-dragons built something under this forest, maybe they left more than just weird magic and old scribbles."
"You think it’s a relic," Lindarion said.
"I think it’s a heart," Ashwing replied. "A big one. Maybe the thing keeping this forest alive all this time."
Lindarion’s gaze drifted toward the massive trunk of the World Tree, its upper reaches lost in clouds. "If so, it’s not awake yet. But something else might be trying to reach it."
He walked along the outer terrace, observing Lorienya from above. The elves below moved in harmony, their lives peaceful, untouched by the chaos that plagued the rest of the world.
Birds darted between crystal lanterns, the air thick with the scent of pollen and song. It was beautiful, almost painfully so.
And yet, even now, he could sense it. The smallest discord beneath the harmony. The faintest bruise on the edge of paradise.
Ashwing’s voice softened. "You’re thinking about Luneth again."
Lindarion didn’t deny it. His hand rested lightly against the railing, fingers brushing the living wood. "She’s strong. Stronger than most would believe. But strength means little in Dythrael’s hands."
"You really think she’s still alive?"
He turned his gaze to the horizon, where green faded into mist. "I know she is. If she weren’t, the world would feel colder."
For a moment, the little dragon said nothing. Then he hopped from Lindarion’s shoulder to the railing, wings flicking. "Then we’ll find her. You, me, Nysha, all of them. Even if we have to burn through every shadow Dythrael ever made."
Lindarion smiled faintly at that, small, fleeting, but real. "You sound like a proper dragon for once."
Ashwing puffed out his chest. "I’ve been practicing."
Below them, the forest shimmered as the afternoon light deepened to gold. The air smelled of rain though no storm had yet come. Lorienya’s peace held, but the forest’s heartbeat was uneven. The disturbance had not vanished. It had only hidden deeper, coiling beneath the roots like something patient, waiting for night.
Lindarion knew it. Felt it. And as the first wind of dusk touched his face, he whispered to the silence, "If you’re listening, old one... I will find you before you reach her."
Ashwing looked up at him curiously. "Her?"
But Lindarion didn’t answer. His eyes had already shifted toward the horizon, toward where the forest met the unseen borders of the world, and where the shadows of Dythrael’s influence might already be stirring once more.
And far below, beneath miles of root and soil, something ancient blinked in the dark, as if his words had been heard.
Night came softly to Lorienya. It did not fall like darkness in the human kingdoms, abrupt, heavy, swallowing light, but rather unfolded. The golden glow of the canopy dimmed to silver, and the air shimmered faintly as the forest’s luminescent blossoms awakened.
Every root, every petal, every crystal embedded in the trees began to hum with quiet life.
From the terraces above, the world below looked like a sea of stars breathing in rhythm with the wind.
Lindarion stood on one of the high walkways overlooking the southern quadrant, the same region where the disturbance had first been felt.
His cloak stirred in the cool air, the faint reflections of mana-light dancing across the pale fabric. Ashwing slept, curled against his shoulder, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.