Beneath the Archive-Tree's crystalline canopy, the air tasted of cool resin and faint citrus—a smell that always reminded Mikhailis of freshly split cedar back in the palace workshops. Shafts of late-afternoon light pierced gaps in the leaves overhead, scattering coins of brightness that drifted across the polished root-floor whenever a breeze stirred. High above, song-beetles chimed in uneven patterns, improvising a lazy counterpoint to the deeper heartbeat of the tree.
The raised platform at the center felt like the bridge of a living ship. Veins of pale gold ran through its surface, pulsing in gentle waves that matched the cadence of Mikhailis's own pulse. At his gesture a swirl of living filaments rose like fountain spray, weaving into a three-dimensional map. It looked almost fragile, as though a careless breath could blow the whole construct away, yet every line carried the weight of roots and tunnels too ancient for any tool to cut.
