Kael stepped forward, bowing one knee.

"Matriarch. The tower awakened for him. We all witnessed it."

"I know," she said.

Her voice was soft, but it cut the air like a blade.

"The forest remembers the vibration."

Her silver gaze returned to Lindarion.

"What did it show you?"

Lindarion answered without hesitation.

"Something is coming from the south. Something ancient. Something hungry."

A ripple of tension went through the crowd.

Dark elves, for all their pride, rarely allowed fear to show—

but this wasn't fear.

This was confirmation of a dread they had already sensed.

The Matriarch lifted her chin slightly.

"And it chose you to witness this warning?"

"It tested me," Lindarion corrected.

"It measured my resonance. And it decided I was… compatible."

A flicker crossed the Matriarch's eyes.

Not alarm—

but understanding.

"Then you have my sympathy," she murmured.

"For the towers do not test without reason."

Her gaze hardened.

"And they do not choose lightly."

A quiet pause settled over the clearing.

Then—

with no change in expression,

with no raising of her voice,

with nothing but her will—

Lindarion felt the air tighten around him.

Not threatening.

Not harmful.

Evaluating.

The Matriarch was probing him, brushing the boundaries of his aura.

Testing the resonance the tower had left behind.

What she felt made her breath still.

"You…"

Her voice lowered, almost reverent.

"You walked out carrying its breath. Its memory. Its will."

She stepped closer—

each footfall measured, predatory, sovereign.

When she stopped before him, she reached out a hand.

Not to touch him.

To feel the air around him.

Her silver pupils widened, faintly glowing.

"You are no longer merely Eldorath's heir."

The clearing held its breath.

"You are now tied to a relic older than kingdoms, older than the Elven partition, older even than Tirnaeth's founding."

She withdrew her hand slowly.

Then, to Kael:

"Prepare the council. Tonight."

Kael bowed.

But before he could turn—

She addressed Lindarion again, softer now:

"You will join us, Prince.

For whether you wish it or not—

your fate has entwined with ours."

Lindarion nodded once.

"I understand."

Ashwing leaned toward Nysha.

"…does this mean we're staying for dinner or is this like a get-the-sacrificial-dagger type vibe—"

Nysha shot him a glare so sharp it could've skinned a wyvern.

The Matriarch continued:

"Rest for now. My people will give you a pavilion. When the moon rises, we speak of what lies ahead."

Her silver eyes softened.

"And perhaps, Prince Lindarion…

you will tell us what the tower whispered to you."

Lindarion's expression darkened slightly.

Because the tower did whisper before he left.

And the whisper was a warning.

He met her gaze and said nothing.

The Matriarch noticed the change—

but let it rest.

For now.

"Escort them," she commanded.

And as the dark elves guided them deeper into the glowing encampment, every warrior they passed bowed their head slightly.

Not in subservience.

But in acknowledgment.

Because whatever he had become in that tower—

the forest itself recognized him.

Night fell on Tirnaeth like a curtain of ink.

The violet luminescence of the towering trees deepened into luminous shadow. Bridges suspended between trunks glowed with faint runic script, lighting paths through the canopy as if the stars themselves had descended.

Lindarion stood at the edge of the encampment on a raised platform woven from darkwood roots, watching the last traces of sunset disappear. The air here felt alive, as if the forest listened with an intelligence all its own.

Ashwing curled on a branch above him, wings tucked, muttering, "If one more elf stares like they're dissecting you with their eyes, I'm biting someone."

Nysha stood at his left, poised but tense. "They're curious. Not hostile."

"They're dark elves," Ashwing hissed. "Curious for them usually means 'hmm, how many organs does this one have.'"

Lindarion didn't respond. His focus was elsewhere—

on the tremor in the land beneath his feet.

Something deep, ancient, and unsettling pulsed far to the south.

A memory surfaced from the tower—one he hadn't shared yet.

A voice.

A whisper.

A warning twisted through static and divine pressure:

He rises.

And he remembers you.

Lindarion exhaled slowly as the memory faded.

He wasn't ready to speak it aloud.

Not yet.

Footsteps approached from behind—light, controlled, unmistakably elven.

Kael emerged from the shadows, armor freshly polished, expression composed.

"The Matriarch awaits," he said. "The council is gathered."

Lindarion nodded.

Nysha and Ashwing fell in at his sides.

They followed Kael deeper into Tirnaeth.

The council chamber was not a building—

it was a living structure.

A colossal tree hollowed from within, its interior shaped into a cathedral of roots and natural archways. Silver lanterns hung like suspended moons, casting pale light that made the runes etched into the walls shimmer.

Nine council members sat in a circular arrangement—

warriors, scholars, seers, strategists.

Each wore ceremonial robes woven from shadow-thread.

At the far end, upon a throne grown from the tree's own heartwood, sat the Matriarch.

She gestured silently.

The chamber's massive doors closed with a whisper.

"Prince of Eldorath," she began, voice steady. "We thank you for joining us."

Lindarion inclined his head.

"I am honored, Matriarch."

"Let us dispense with courtesy."

Her silver gaze sharpened.

"The towers do not awaken without cause. Tell us what you saw."

The room grew still.

Lindarion inhaled, then began:

"The tower's memory showed… a presence. A force gathering in the south."

Murmurs stirred, quick, alarmed, restrained.

One council member leaned forward.

An older dark elf with braided silver hair and eyes like wet obsidian.

"Was it Dythrael?"

Lindarion hesitated.

Not because he doubted—

but because saying the name aloud made the air feel heavier.

"No," he said finally. "It was not Dythrael. Not directly."

"Not directly?" another councilor asked sharply. "Explain."

Lindarion's gaze darkened.

"I saw the land warping. Mana bleeding from the roots of the world. Something… moving beneath the sands. Something that remembers the scent of divine flame."

Ashwing whispered, "…oh that's not ominous at all."

Nysha nudged him again.

The Matriarch's fingers drummed lightly against the arm of her throne.

A sound so soft it was nearly nothing—

yet it commanded more weight than a shout.

"What else?" she asked.

Lindarion exhaled slowly.

He remembered the tower's whisper.

The voice that didn't belong to the tower at all.

Something old.

Something sealed.

Something that had woken long before this vision.

He hesitated.

The Matriarch noticed immediately.

"There is more," she said quietly.

"Speak truth, Prince. Secrets kill faster than blades."

The council leaned in.

Lindarion finally said it.

"The tower whispered just before I left."

His voice dropped.

"It said: He rises. And he remembers you."