Lindarion's gaze flicked down. The ground beneath the apparition pulsed faintly with black veins, not natural corruption, but concentrated mana lines woven in a pattern. They spread outward like a net, reaching into the forest's heart.
"A projection field," he whispered. "Whoever created it… used her essence as a template."
Ashwing hissed softly. "So Dythrael?"
"Or something that serves him."
The apparition stepped forward. Her feet didn't disturb the ground, not even a hint of displacement. Her eyes, though, those were alive. They searched him as if she were remembering something half-forgotten.
"You shouldn't have come," she said.
Her tone was quiet, not threatening, mournful.
"I didn't come for safety," Lindarion replied. "I came because I won't let the world burn while I still draw breath."
"You'll die," she said. The voice wavered, like a candle struggling against a draft. "You'll die like he did."
Lindarion's hands clenched. "Who?"
