The broken forest was silent except for the sound of slow, steady footsteps.
Argolaith led the way, the dormant form of Yuneith cradled carefully in his arms. It pulsed against his chest—not heavily, not as a burden, but alive, faintly warm through the fabric of his armor. Every so often, the tree fragment shivered, as if reminding him that it still breathed. That it still hoped.
The others followed closely.
Kaelred's daggers were sheathed, his hands shoved deep into his cloak pockets as he trudged through the cracked soil.
Malakar walked a few paces to Argolaith's left, his violet eyes distant, as though weighing every step against memories only he could see.
Thae'Zirak, in his smaller form, padded silently alongside them, tail flicking through the mist.
There was no mistaking it.
The air had changed.
The land itself felt… heavier.
Not with fear.
But with meaning.
Every step was a promise to something older than words.
For a long time, they said nothing.
