CHAPTER 462: A FAINT TRACE

Lindarion’s voice carried easily over the assembly, calm but edged with command. "Two days south. That’s how long we travel before we stop. No noise, no fires, no magic that bleeds beyond your veins. We move like wind through reeds."

Vareth stepped forward. "If we’re walking into whatever did this... what’s our plan, Your Highness?"

Lindarion looked toward the mist, his gaze cutting through the haze as though he could already see what waited there. "We learn. We observe. We listen. If the land is dying, it will tell us how."

"And if it’s not dying?" Nysha asked.

"Then we find what’s feeding on it."

Ashwing fluttered up to his shoulder, tail flicking irritably. "Why do I feel like that’s going to end with explosions and screaming?"

"Because it usually does," Lindarion replied without missing a beat.

A ripple of uneasy laughter moved through the soldiers. It was small, fragile, but it lightened the tension enough for them to breathe.

They departed an hour later.

The forest shifted subtly as they moved. The further south they went, the older the trees became. Their trunks widened, bark darkening from pale silver to earthen brown, their roots thick with moss that glowed faintly beneath the shadows. Here, mana was dense, not bright, but heavy, ancient, like walking through an ocean of thought.

Lindarion could feel the hum against his skin. It wasn’t hostile... but it was waiting.

At midday, they halted briefly near a small river that wound through crystal-blue stones. The water shimmered unnaturally, reflecting not the sky above but streaks of gold and crimson light deep beneath the surface.

Elwen crouched beside it, dipping her fingers cautiously. "This isn’t normal. The river should run clear."

Lindarion knelt beside her. The moment he touched the surface, the [System] flickered faintly.

[Residual Energy Detected.]

[Signature: Draconic. Faint trace — Source: Unknown.]

Again. Draconic. Just like the corrupted core.

Nysha caught his look. "Same as before?"

"Yes. But weaker. Like an echo."

"So it’s spreading."

"No," Lindarion said softly. "It’s moving."

They pressed onward until evening, when the air began to change again. The scent of sap grew stronger, tinged with metal.

Mana currents distorted slightly, enough to make the weaker soldiers shiver. Even the World Tree’s distant pulse, usually a steady thrum in Lorienya, faded to a whisper.

Ashwing’s claws dug faintly into Lindarion’s shoulder. ’We shouldn’t be here when the sun goes down. Something’s wrong.’

’I know,’ Lindarion replied mentally.

He lifted a hand, signaling the halt. "Set camp here. No fires. Scouts in groups of three, circle the perimeter and report if you see anything unnatural."

Vareth saluted sharply. "Aye, my prince."

When the soldiers dispersed, Lindarion and Nysha remained. The wind shifted, carrying with it a low, rhythmic sound. At first it seemed like the heartbeat of the earth itself, until Lindarion realized it was coming from beneath them.

A pulse. Slow, steady, deep.

He knelt and pressed his palm against the soil. Heat radiated through it, not flame, but the dense warmth of mana compressed too tightly.

"Something’s breathing down there," Nysha muttered, her eyes narrowing.

"No," Lindarion said quietly. "Something’s dreaming."

He stood, scanning the trees. His golden irises flared faintly as he opened his perception, the world dissolving briefly into waves of mana-light. Through that vision, he saw threads of energy winding through the roots, thin, serpentine, winding toward the south.

It wasn’t corruption. It was migration.

[System Notice: Mana flow anomaly detected.]

[Direction: South—beyond mapped territory.]

[Risk Level: Severe.]

"Then that’s where we go next," he murmured.

Nysha frowned. "You sure? Whatever this is, it’s pulling power from the forest itself. If it’s connected to Dythrael—"

"It’s not," Lindarion interrupted softly. "This is older. Wiser. It doesn’t devour for hunger. It devours to wake."

Ashwing’s tail flicked. "I don’t like the sound of that."

"Neither do I," Lindarion admitted. "But if it’s tied to the draconic remnants beneath this land, it might know where Maeven took the prisoners."

He didn’t need to say the names. Nysha knew. The Queen of Eldorath. Luneth Silverleaf.

"Then we find it," she said firmly.

Lindarion turned to the rest of the camp, his silhouette lit faintly by the dim starlight filtering through the leaves. "We move again at dawn. Rest while you can."

As the soldiers settled into quiet watch shifts, Lindarion remained awake. He sat on a fallen root, the forest stretching before him, humming softly like an old creature whispering to itself.

Ashwing curled up beside him, one golden eye half-open. "You’re thinking again."

"I always am."

"About her?"

Lindarion didn’t answer at first. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. "About all of them. About what I’ll have to become to save them."

The dragon yawned, curling tighter. "You already became something else. Maybe that’s enough."

Lindarion glanced down at him, then at the faint shimmer of gold veins beneath his skin, the remnants of the World Tree’s blessing. "No. It’s only the beginning."

The wind stirred again, and for a brief moment, he could hear faint voices carried within it, echoes from the roots, whispering a language he didn’t know but somehow understood.

Wake the blood. Wake the heir. The storm is not yet full.

His eyes opened fully, gleaming with quiet resolve.

Whatever waited in the south, be it draconic or divine, it had begun to move. And so would he.

The dawn broke muted and gray, its light filtered through the endless canopy. Lorienya’s southern expanse stretched before them, untamed, older than any of the forest realms Lindarion had known.

The air felt denser here, thick with a living pulse that seemed to echo from beneath the soil. It wasn’t mere forest; it was something awake.

Lindarion led the company at a steady pace. His white hair gleamed faintly in the dim light, a beacon against the green gloom. Ashwing circled lazily above, wings whispering through mist like silk on glass.

Nysha followed close behind, her eyes constantly scanning the treeline, shadows shifting at her feet as if alive.

By midday, the path had narrowed to winding trails between enormous roots, some thick enough to serve as bridges, others rising into walls that cut off the horizon entirely.

Here, sound behaved strangely, voices carried too far, and sometimes echoed even when no one spoke.

Lindarion’s steps slowed. "This is the threshold," he murmured.

Nysha’s gaze darted toward him. "Threshold?"

"The border where Lorienya ends and the ancient lands begin," he said quietly. "This ground hasn’t been walked by elves in an age."

Ashwing landed on a low branch nearby, tail curling around it like a serpent. "And we’re walking into it why, again?"

"Because whatever’s beneath this land is drawing mana from the roots," Lindarion replied. "If the World Tree’s pulse weakens, so will Lorienya’s barrier. We can’t let that happen."

They pressed onward, the forest deepening with every step. The light faded until it seemed perpetually twilight. The roots glowed faintly beneath their feet, veins of mana pulsing in patterns that resembled heartbeat rhythms, steady, rhythmic, ancient.