The dining hall of Hematheas did not announce itself with grandeur in the way human kingdoms preferred. There were no towering marble pillars or gilded chandeliers meant to overwhelm. Instead, the space breathed.
That was the only way Luke could describe it.
The walls were grown, not built—smooth arcs of pale wood and living bark shaped into elegant curves, veins of faintly glowing sap running through them like veins beneath skin. Above, the ceiling opened into a lattice of intertwined branches, leaves woven so finely that moonlight filtered through in soft, silver patterns. Small motes of natural light hovered in the air, drifting lazily like fireflies, illuminating the hall without a single torch in sight.
The tables were carved from a single immense tree long ago, polished smooth by time and care, roots still visible beneath the floor as if the hall itself refused to sever its connection to the land. Everything felt… alive. Listening. Watching, perhaps—but not in a hostile way.
