The first three days passed beneath endless green.
From the air, Lorienya stretched like a living ocean, layers of forest stacked upon forest, each older and stranger than the last.
The canopy glittered in shifting tones of gold and emerald, breathing with quiet life. Yet as Lindarion and Ashwing flew further south, the hues began to dull. The light grew colder. The veins of the trees turned gray where they should have pulsed with blue.
Ashwing glided low, his great wings slicing through mist that clung to the roots like a sleeping tide. "It's getting worse the further we go," he said, nose wrinkling. "Smells wrong. Like something rotted, but still alive."
Lindarion adjusted his grip on the harness, golden eyes scanning the terrain. "Corruption."
"Dythrael?"
"Maybe." He exhaled, slow and quiet. "Maybe not just him."
