When the Synod's chamber had emptied, High Magister Elorath lingered in the shadows of its crystalline columns.
His eyes, sharp and weary from centuries, sought one man: Ilyarion, a priest-magus whose duties often kept him close to the tidelines, where elven ships pressed furthest into the uncertain waters.
"Walk with me," Elorath said quietly, gripping Ilyarion's arm before he could bow. Together they moved into the outer cloisters, where moonlight fell through latticed stone and the sea's distant roar pulsed like a heartbeat.
For a time, Elorath said nothing. Then, with a glance as cutting as a blade, he asked,
"The Shivering Sea. Has it stirred?"
Ilyarion faltered, lips pursing before words emerged. "A troubling question, High Magister. There have been… reports. Rumors, most would dismiss. Yet they persist."
