"We must," she said, her voice quiet but unshaken. "This isn't about politics anymore. They touched our kin. And during the Year of Inheritance."
Elowen gave a single nod, not needing to add much more. "They touched one of ours."
Far from the forest roots and sacred trees, fire was already burning beyond the mists and hush of the living world.
It burned inside a place no map had ever marked, a place too old to exist on paper, and too sacred to speak of casually.
The hall stood in silence, vast and black, carved from obsidian that shimmered with thin rivers of gold.
Its walls didn't reflect the fire—they shaped it, stretched it, and made it dance like something alive.
There were no torches, no windows, just light flickering across dark stone like breath in the lungs of something ancient.
One figure stood at the center of that hall.
Barefoot. Unarmored. Wrapped in a robe of flowing red that slipped and curled with every small shift of their body.
