Lindarion rose, blade in hand. The humans stirred but did not follow, only watched, hope and fear knotted in their eyes. Nysha stepped forward once, shadows twitching around her ankles, but she said nothing.
Ashwing's voice piped faintly in his mind. 'We'll be here when you co back.'
He gave no outward reply. Only a faint nod, as if to himself, before he followed the elves into the city.
The bridges of Lorienya stretched high above, sunlight flickering through leaves like shattered glass. He climbed the spiraling path toward the council hall, the weight of countless eyes pressing down from the branches.
Elves paused in their daily tasks to watch him pass, whispers rustling like wind.
Prince. Stranger. Disruption.
The hall itself was grown, not built, an enormous hollow in the heart of the eldest tree, its walls etched with living runes that pulsed faintly with the tree's heartbeat.
At its far end sat Vaelthorn and Sylwen Ironbark, the king and queen of this realm. Around them, councilors lined the curved chamber, each robed in hues of bark and leaf.
The sa faces he rembered from the festival of his youth, when his father had stood tall beside him. Then, they had smiled. Now, their gazes were sharp and skeptical.
Lindarion strode forward, every step deliberate, until he stood before them. He inclined his head, not bowed, not humbled, but respectful.
"Prince Lindarion of Eldorath," Vaelthorn said, voice deep as the roots. "You stand before the council of Lorienya. Speak your purpose."
The hall was silent, expectant.
And Lindarion's voice rang out clear.
"I co not for myself," he said. "But for those who followed from the ruins. The humans who yet breathe, though the world has tried to bury them. I ask sanctuary for them within your forests."
A ripple stirred through the council. Murmurs rose like insects in sumr.
One elder's voice cut sharp through the noise. "Mortals bring only fire and decay. Why should Lorienya bear their weight?"
Another joined: "They consu, they rot, they vanish in decades. Our roots endure centuries. To open our halls to them is folly."
Sylwen's eyes were calm but unreadable as she watched Lindarion. Vaelthorn's hand rested on the arm of his seat, heavy as stone.
Lindarion stood unmoved beneath the tide of skepticism.
"They are not fire," he said. "They are ash that refuses to fade. They fought beside , bled beside . Without them, I would not stand here now. Without , they would already be dust. Do you an to say their courage is unworthy because their lives are brief?"
The elder scoffed. "Their courage will not guard the World Tree when they crumble into earth."
Lindarion's eyes narrowed. "Then I will guard it. As I have always guarded what was mine to protect."
For a heartbeat, the chamber was still.
And then he added, quieter, but heavier: "If you deny them, you deny . And if Lorienya will not shelter the broken, then I will shelter them alone."
The murmur swelled again, half outrage, half unease.
Sylwen leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp as a blade. "You ask much, son of Eldrin."
Lindarion's chest tightened. He seized the mont. "Then tell —where is my father? Where is Eldrin now?"
The question struck like lightning.
The hall grew silent. Councilors shifted uncomfortably.
At last, Vaelthorn's voice ca, low, reluctant. "We do not know. Word ca months past, fragnted. He moved east with his host. Since then, silence. The forests hear nothing of him."
The weight fell heavier than any chain.
Lindarion closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, the fire within steadier than before.
"Then until I find him," he said, "I will stand where he cannot. For the mortals, for the elves, for any who yet resist the shadow. That is my oath."
His words lingered in the air, a challenge, a promise.
The council fell into hushed debate, voices clashing like distant storms.
And Lindarion stood waiting, silent, unflinching.
The night had passed. The judgnt would co with the dawn's full light.
—
The council chamber remained heavy with silence after Lindarion's departure. The young prince's words clung to the living walls, as though even the wood itself had absorbed the weight of his oath. Runes pulsed faintly, echoing the rhythm of the World Tree's heart, but in the hollowed chamber the sound resembled a warning drum.
Vaelthorn Ironbark's hand lingered on the carved arm of his seat. The king's face was carved as deep as bark, every line the mark of centuries, yet his eyes, brown as rich earth, were restless.
"He has his father's fire," murmured Sylwen, her voice carrying softly yet cutting through the murmurs. The queen's hair, pale as birch, fell loosely around her shoulders, though her gaze was sharp as any blade. "But not his father's patience."
At once, Councilor Thariel rose from his seat, robes rustling like dry leaves. His features were narrow, hawkish, his voice already edged with disdain.
"Patience?" Thariel scoffed. "He cos to us with mortals clinging to his cloak like leeches, demanding sanctuary in our forests, and you speak of patience?" He slamd a hand against the table of living root that wound through the chamber. "This boy endangers us all. Humans are not ant for Lorienya. They do not belong beneath the World Tree's shadow."
Murmurs of assent rose from several councilors.
But not all.
Eiraeth, youngest of the circle, leaned forward. His brown hair caught the light of the runes, his voice calm but earnest. "And yet, they bleed. They suffer. Are we to ignore that suffering because their years are fewer than ours? Did the World Tree itself not open its shade to all life when it first sprouted?"
"Naïve words," hissed Thariel. "The Tree shelters, yes, but it does not invite corruption into its roots." His gaze swept the chamber. "Do none of you see it? Mortals carry chaos. They consu forests, burn plains, cut down what they cannot nurture. To grant them sanctuary is to invite rot."
"Not all mortals," countered Eiraeth, his voice rising slightly. "And not these. They ca beaten, half-dead, carrying nothing but desperation. Would you turn away the helpless because of cris they have not yet committed?"
A sharp laugh cut the tension. It ca from Elder Fenrel, oldest of the council, his hair silver as moonlight, his eyes veiled by centuries. "Your tongue is soft, Eiraeth. But hear , mortals never remain helpless for long. They breed like wildfire. Today they are a handful in our clearings. Tomorrow, they will be a village. In a century, they will demand their own halls beneath the Tree. And when their line ends, what will remain? Ashes. Always ashes."
The chamber stirred with uneasy nods.
Sylwen did not move. Her gaze lingered where Lindarion had stood, sharp with thought.
"Let us not forget," she said at last, her voice calm but carrying, "this is not rely about mortals. It is about a prince of Eldorath. The son of Eldrin Sunblade."
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