The barren salt flats of the northern border stretched for three miles beneath a sky drained of all warmth.
Eirwen knelt upon the cracked alkali crust, opening the velvet pouch that held the sacred soil of the Alder Court.
Every grain inside the pouch carried a living thread of ancient botanical memory cultivated through twelve centuries of forest song.
"I can move the living road..." she murmured, letting a pinch of dark loam slip between her slender fingers.
The dead ground hissed as the living soil touched the salt crust, sending vibrant emerald veins spider-webbing across the gray waste.
Behind her, forty exhausted refugees from the outer border settlements watched with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"The border guards will fire their mana ballistas the moment that road touches the boundary stones!" the village elder warned.
"The border guards will find only living grass beneath their boundary stones," she answered without looking up.
