The guardian stood unmoving, framed by the mist and the broken silhouette of Yuneith's wounded roots.
Its hollow eyes glowed brighter now, threads of silver memory weaving from its body into the very ground beneath their feet. The air around it trembled—not with rage or hunger, but with the heavy weight of purpose.
Argolaith stepped forward, sword in hand, the root fragment at his hip burning hotter than ever before.
The guardian raised its hand once—palm outward, fingers splayed like the reaching branches of a dead tree.
A voice, deep and ancient, spoke—
Not through sound, but through the marrow of their bones.
"Only the Chosen may pass."
Kaelred's hand tightened around his daggers.
Malakar's robes stirred in the still air.
Thae'Zirak tensed, tail lashing the mist.
But the voice continued:
"Only the bearer of the scars of the sacred roots may fight.
Only the will forged by the five shall be tested."
The guardian's hollow eyes locked onto Argolaith alone.
