The drums began to sound, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the forest floor. One beat for the dawn, one for the oath, one for the march.

Elves assembled in formation below: the silver-clad archers, the warden knights, the druids cloaked in living bark.

Nysha's crimson cloak rippled as she looked down at them. "They're ready."

"Then we begin."

As Lindarion stepped forward, a ripple of silence spread through the crowd. Every eye turned upward to the terrace.

He raised his hand slightly, not in command, but in acknowledgment. "Sons and daughters of Lorienya," he said, voice clear, carrying without force. "We march not for conquest, nor glory. We march to preserve what still breathes. The forest that raised you. The sky that shelters you. The roots that remember your names."

His eyes swept across them, golden light burning faintly beneath his irises. "You will see darkness that hungers. You will see the trees you once called sacred twist against you. But you will not falter. You are Lorienya, the voice of the living world. And I—" he drew his blade, and the air thrummed, "will walk beside you."

The crowd bowed as one, silent, reverent. The ancient song rose again, not loud, but steady, like the heartbeat of the forest itself.

Ashwing stretched his wings, muttering under his breath. "Now that's dramatic."

Lindarion smirked faintly. "You liked it."

"Maybe a little."

Nysha's lips twitched. "He's learning speeches now. I'm almost impressed."

"Almost?" Lindarion said.

"Almost," she repeated.

When the drums sounded a final time, the company began to move, rows of shimmering figures fading into the southern mist, boots silent on the moss. Lindarion walked at the head of the column, cloak trailing faintly like liquid light.

Hours passed. The canopy thickened. The sunlight dimmed to a dull green, and the air grew heavier. The songs faded behind them until only the whisper of leaves remained.

By midday, the first sign appeared.

The forest floor darkened ahead, streaks of grey and black veining the roots. The trees twisted unnaturally, their branches reaching in spirals, leaves colorless as ash. The elves slowed, unease rippling through their ranks.

Lindarion knelt briefly, touching the soil. The mana there felt wrong, not dead, but inverted. A pulse that fed upon itself.

Nysha crouched beside him. "It's like something's eating the life out of the world."

He nodded once. "Not eating. Mimicking. This corruption wants to replace it."

He rose, unsheathing his blade. The runes along its length ignited with pale gold fire. "Spread out. Form the crescent. Burn anything that moves unnaturally."

The captains obeyed, signaling the formation silently. The archers fanned out, druids knelt to weave protective sigils into the ground, and a low hum filled the air as mana threads intertwined into a barrier.

Ashwing leapt from Lindarion's shoulder, growing midair into his full draconic form, wings slicing through the canopy. "You think it'll come soon?"

"It's already here," Lindarion said quietly.

The ground trembled.

The corrupted roots split open, and from them crawled figures, mockeries of elves, their forms warped and fluid, skin like bark soaked in tar. Their eyes glowed faintly green, empty of will.

The first one screamed, a sound that wasn't sound but vibration, an echo of pain and hunger.

Lindarion's blade lifted, golden light bursting outward.

"Hold the line," he said calmly. "And let the forest remember its prince."

Then he moved.

The world blurred. Golden light and black shadow twisted together as he cut through the first wave, each strike clean and silent, each motion precise. The corrupted fell like petals in the wind.

Ashwing roared above, fire spilling across the treetops, turning corrupted vines to ash.

The Lorienyan soldiers fought like echoes of their prince, graceful, fluid, relentless. But even as they struck down the enemy, more poured from the forest floor.

Nysha's voice cut through the din. "They're endless!"

"They're not endless," Lindarion said, driving his blade into the earth. "They're being called."

A pulse of golden light exploded outward, vaporizing everything within thirty paces. The ground heaved, the corruption recoiling for a moment.

Then, from the depths of the forest, came a sound like breathing. Slow. Heavy. Ancient.

The wind died. The leaves stopped moving.

Lindarion straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. "There you are."

Ashwing hissed above, wings folding back as he circled. "What is that?"

The trees ahead shifted, bending away from something unseen. Shadows deepened, forming the faint outline of a vast shape, neither beast nor spirit, but something between.

Lindarion exhaled, golden aura intensifying until the darkness began to shrink away from him.

"Nysha," he said softly, without looking back. "Hold the line."

She hesitated. "Lindarion—"

"That's an order."

And before she could speak again, he walked forward, alone, into the pulsing dark.

The air grew heavy as Lindarion stepped past the barrier of light and into the depths of the corruption. Sound warped around him, the whispers of the forest bleeding into one another like a thousand dying breaths.

Every step sank deeper into the pulsing roots, once-living veins of mana now blackened and veined with gray. They trembled faintly beneath his boots, as if some buried heart still tried to beat within them.

The light that filtered from the canopy above couldn't reach this place. It was swallowed whole, devoured by the shadows that hung thick and wet in the air.

Ashwing's voice echoed in his mind, faint and strained, the connection flickering.

'Lindarion… I can't see you. You're too deep. The light's gone.'

'Stay where you are,' Lindarion replied calmly, though his pulse was steady only by force of will. 'If it's what I think, it feeds on mana. Don't get close.'

'Yeah, well, it's eating half the forest right now!' Ashwing growled.

'Then let me stop it.'

He lifted his sword, and it shone faintly, golden light pressing against the darkness like a heartbeat against the void. Each pulse revealed brief glimpses of his surroundings: tangled roots, broken idols, the remains of elven armor half-swallowed by bark.

And something else.

Shapes etched into the black wood, curling like veins of silver fire, a language. Familiar, but older than any tongue he'd heard. His core resonated faintly with it, as if recognizing the echo of something buried deep within him.

A voice drifted out of the dark. Not from a mouth, but from everywhere.

"Why do you bleed light in a place made for silence?"

Lindarion didn't answer at once. He followed the voice, his steps deliberate, blade poised at his side. "Because silence can lie. And I prefer truth."

The whisper came again, closer now, resonant and cold. "Truth burns. You should not carry it."

"Then I'll burn with it."

A low, rippling laugh filled the space. The roots ahead split open, revealing a hollow chamber, a wound in the forest. At its center floated a sphere of black mist, shifting like liquid shadow, its surface veined with gold cracks. Through them, faint light pulsed, fragile and dying.

Lindarion's eyes narrowed. "The core."

He approached slowly, the ground trembling beneath him. Each step he took, the mist recoiled, hissing faintly like smoke touched by flame.

When he was close enough, he extended his free hand and murmured under his breath, "[System, scan.]"

The familiar metallic whisper rippled across his consciousness:

[Fragment recognized. Mana Core—corrupted variant. Signature: Draconic origin. Warning: hostile assimilation detected.]