He had chosen not to rest.
Something in the pulse of the roots kept calling to him, not in sound, but in rhythm. Every few minutes, the energy beneath the ground shifted slightly, like a wave breaking against unseen shores.
It wasn't hostile. Not yet. But it was restless, like a dreamer beginning to stir.
The prince's thoughts drifted.
He remembered Sylvarion, the city of white stone and silver trees, home of Princess Luneth. The way her voice could still a hall of warriors, not through command but through presence.
Her words had been measured, always sharp but never cruel. And behind that frost lay something rare: warmth so deep that she feared to show it.
He had seen it only once.
When the war council of Eldorath and Sylvarion had met to decide whether to strike at Dythrael's fortress, she had stood beside him, the northern winds weaving through her pale hair. "If you fall," she had said quietly, "the world will lose its compass. Do not make me live in that silence."
