The chamber shifted.

A pulse of mana flickered along the walls—

as if the tree itself reacted.

Several councilors stiffened.

Kael's jaw clenched.

Nysha went very still beside him.

And the Matriarch…

her silver eyes narrowed, the light inside them flickering like distant lightning.

"So," she murmured.

"That confirms it. The south trembles not because something stirs—

but because someone intends to tear open the forgotten gates."

Lindarion frowned.

"Someone?"

"Yes," the Matriarch said.

"The one who once hunted the gods.

The one banished beyond the mortal veil.

The last of the Prime Seraphim turned devourer."

Ashwing swallowed loudly.

"Please tell me you're describing someone who died a very, very long time ago."

The Matriarch's gaze sharpened.

"No.

He sleeps beneath the ruins of the Dawnspire,

awaiting a fracture in the world large enough for his return."

Lindarion felt the tremor again—

the pulse far to the south.

"Who is he?" he asked quietly.

The Matriarch answered with a grim calm:

"Vharakos.

The Seraph of the Hollow Sun.

The Eater of Divinity."

A hush fell like dust.

One councilor broke it, voice trembling:

"But the seals—surely the ancient runes—"

"They were crafted at the end of the First Era," the Matriarch said.

"And time has eroded even divine stone."

Her silver eyes turned to Lindarion.

"And now… they react to him."

Lindarion straightened, tension flickering across his golden irises.

"Why me?"

"Because," the Matriarch replied,

"your blood is tied to the oldest flame.

And beings like Vharakos can smell divine lineage the way wolves smell blood."

She leaned forward.

"He remembers you because you carry something that should not exist. A convergence of light and shadow, tree and dragon, mortal and divine."

She studied him, expression unreadable.

"You are a beacon in the dark.

And every monster beyond the veil sees you."

Silence.

Then—

"What do you intend to do?" Lindarion asked quietly.

The Matriarch rose from her throne.

"We will help you.

Because if Vharakos rises, Tirnaeth will be swallowed first."

She stepped down, stopping only a step away from him.

"We cannot kill what sleeps. But we can delay him. And you"—

she touched two fingers to the air before his chest, not quite touching—

"you may be the only one who can sever the path he follows."

Lindarion held her gaze.

"I will try."

The Matriarch nodded once.

"Then we prepare at dawn."

She turned to the council.

"Send word to our outposts. Ready the southern watch. And have the seers map the fractures beneath the sands."

As the council dispersed, she spoke one last time—

soft, but absolute.

"Prince Lindarion…

the world is shifting faster than you know.

If Vharakos is stirring…

then Dythrael is no longer your only enemy."

Lindarion's eyes darkened.

"I know."

Because the whisper hadn't just said he remembers you.

It had said something else, too—

something he still hadn't spoken aloud:

And he wants what you carry.

Dawn did not break over Tirnaeth.

It seeped.

The sky shifted from indigo to a muted violet, filtered through the dense canopy. No bright sunrise. No warm gold. Only the cold, faint glow of a forest that preferred shadows to morning.

Lindarion stood on the eastern platform, cloak stirring in the wind that cut through the upper branches. He watched as the last stars dimmed behind drifting clouds. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade—not in tension, but in awareness.

Ashwing perched on the railing beside him, tail flicking.

"Eldorath had sun," he grumbled. "Real sun. Warm sun. If I get a cold because this place hates the sky, I'm blaming—"

Nysha's voice cut in from behind.

"You can't get a cold. You literally breathe fire."

Ashwing squawked. "I can still suffer emotionally."

Lindarion almost smiled.

Almost.

His mind was elsewhere—on Vharakos, on the fractures beneath the sands, on the whisper the tower had buried into his bones:

He wants what you carry.

What he carried wasn't an item.

Wasn't a relic.

It was himself.

His blood.

His core.

His lineage.

His evolving system.

His connection to the Tree.

Whatever Vharakos was, he wanted all of it.

Nysha stepped to his side. "You look like you're already fighting."

"I am."

"Then let's go win."

Footsteps approached—precise, disciplined.

Kael.

"Prince Lindarion," he said with a respectful bow. "The Matriarch is ready to see you off."

The walk to the lower platforms took only minutes, but the entire settlement seemed to shift in their presence. Dark elves paused in their work. Warriors in lacquered armor touched fist to chest. Children leaned between pillars to stare with wide silver eyes.

Their gazes were not worshipful.

Not fearful.

Not judgmental.

They were… calculating.

Weighing him.

Measuring him.

Searching for the truth behind the golden irises.

At the center of the lowest bridge, the Matriarch waited with her council.

She held a staff of living bark, its top coiled with pale blue flame—a flame that did not burn, only pulsed like a heartbeat.

"Prince of Eldorath," she said. "The way south is open to you."

"Thank you, Matriarch."

"Do not thank me yet."

Her gaze was sharp as polished obsidian.

"The sands beyond the forest have changed. You will see storms of mana, fractures in the sky, echoes of old wars that never truly ended."

Kael stepped forward, offering a small obsidian shard etched with silver runes.

A map.

"The shard will resonate when you approach a fracture," Kael explained. "Follow its pull, but do not let it sync with your mana. It is a tool, not a symbiote."

Lindarion nodded.

The Matriarch lifted her staff.

Its flame brightened.

"In the south," she said, "the world remembers the First Era. It remembers gods bleeding, the sky splitting, the desert swallowing armies. Those memories will reach for you."

Ashwing muttered, "Wonderful."

The Matriarch's eyes softened—barely, but undeniably.

"But you are not walking blind. Tirnaeth stands with you."

A pulse of mana rippled from her staff across the platform—

a blessing.

A ward.

A tether.

Lindarion felt it settle at the edge of his aura, cool and steady.

He bowed his head.

"I will not forget this."

"And we," she said, "will not forget what you risk."