Eirwen climbed the elderroot terrace the morning after the foundry raid, following the retaining wall until the mist thinned enough to show the planting beds beneath it.
She carried her unstrung silverwood bow across her left forearm, checking the stamped zinc coordinates from Ferra's foundry raid against the carved trail markers along the old Alder road.
The canopy overhead was thick with braided grey branches, their silver-veined leaves hanging limp and grey from months of illicit mana drainage.
Every tree in this valley had been planted three centuries ago by the second migration, their deep roots woven into a living subterranean circuit meant to stabilize the regional soil against earthquakes and seasonal floods.
At the center of the terrace stood an oval stone cistern where an elderly tender and a young helper were clearing dried root rot from the planting troughs.
