The fire in the temple was low, its embers casting flickering shadows across the ancient walls. The silence of the sanctum had returned, but it no longer felt calm—it was filled with anticipation. With warning.
Argolaith sat near the edge of the Rootheart chamber, the dagger he'd found lying across his knees. The weapon no longer hummed, but the memory it had shown him pulsed fresh in his thoughts—like an echo still caught between the cracks of time.
He looked up at the others.
"I saw how they moved the tree," he said.
Kaelred looked up from his spot near the cooking pit. Malakar paused mid-sentence, his bony hand hovering over a page of weathered runes. Thae'Zirak turned one golden eye toward him, but did not speak.
