The elven hall of the Northern Forest seemed alive, an organic cathedral sculpted within the gnarled roots of ancient trees. Luminescent vines, pulsing with a soft glow like captive stars, intertwined across the ceiling, casting dancing shadows on the tense faces of the gathered elves.
Its walls were woven from living roots. Fronds hung from the arches, brushing the shoulders of the assembled elves, their whispers intertwining.
At the center of the chamber, upon a dais where roots coiled into a natural throne, the Matron sat immobile. Her eyes, a green so deep they seemed bottomless, fixed on a single point: Liam's portal, its outline faintly shimmering.
Around her, the counselors formed an uneven circle, their rigid postures betraying a growing impatience.
