Ashwing tilted his head from where he lay coiled at the bed's edge, voice small in Lindarion's mind. 'Do you think they'll let us stay after?'
Lindarion's eyes opened, pale and sharp in the lantern's glow. "No."
'Then what will we do?'
"We will be ready," he said simply. "When they tell us to leave, we will leave stronger than we came. And if the world closes its doors…" His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. "…we will carve them open."
A soft rustle stirred near the door. Shadows shifted faintly, curling along the floor before receding again. Nysha. Watching. She hadn't entered, hadn't spoken, but she lingered.
Lindarion didn't call to her. He let her shadows fade.
The bed creaked faintly as he lay back, exhaling at last. His chest burned still, the ache of battle and strain refusing to leave, but Selene's lingering warmth steadied it. He closed his eyes, though sleep did not claim him quickly.
And as silence wrapped him in the heart of the world tree's roots, Lindarion thought of his father, Eldrin, lost, broken, scarred by Dythrael's hand.
The world thought the prince had found sanctuary.
But Lindarion knew the truth.
Sanctuary was only the calm before the hunt began again.
—
Dawn filtered through the canopy like liquid gold. The branches above Lorienya bent the light into shifting patterns, dappling bridges, platforms, and woven homes with warmth. For the first time in months, Lindarion woke not to the smell of ash or blood, but to the scent of moss and resin carried through the wood.
He rose quietly. His body still ached, but the night's rest had given him something he had nearly forgotten: clarity. His sword rested beside him, humming faintly as if aware of the peace, resentful of it.
Ashwing stretched from his coiled spot at the foot of the bed, tail flicking lazily. His voice brushed Lindarion's mind with a yawn. 'You're already up. Do we fight again today?'
"No," Lindarion said softly, strapping the blade to his back. "Not today."
'Then what?'
Lindarion's gaze drifted to the window carved into the tree's wall. Beyond it, bridges wound between towering trunks, waterfalls shimmered in the distance, and the faint sound of laughter drifted up from far below. It was a world untouched by the rot he had walked through. A world he had never seen with his own eyes until now.
"We explore," he said.
Ashwing perked, his little claws scrabbling against the linen. 'Explore?' His voice brightened. 'Finally!'
Lindarion stepped out into the morning air. The platform beneath his feet swayed faintly with the wind, ropes creaking softly. He pulled his cloak tighter, not because of cold but because of eyes, there would always be eyes.
The elves were already awake. Children ran barefoot across woven bridges, their laughter rising as they darted past merchants setting out baskets of fruit and nuts. Hunters returned with deer slung across shoulders, bows carved from whitewood gleaming with dew. Their gazes lingered on him as he walked, some wary, some curious, others reverent. But none stopped him.
Lorienya was unlike anything he had known. Homes carved into the bark spiraled with patterns that seemed to grow naturally from the wood. Singing vines twined along railings, their blossoms opening and closing as people passed. Even the air felt alive, filled with voices of birds that sang as though in chorus with the city itself.
Ashwing climbed onto his shoulder, eyes wide, tail flicking with excitement. 'It smells so strange here. Green. Sweet. No blood at all.'
"That's why it feels wrong," Lindarion muttered, though his eyes softened despite his words.
He passed a stall where an elf with hair the color of chestnut bark carved flutes from hollow branches. Another hung fabrics dyed in deep emeralds and silvers, patterns shaped like leaves and stars. Children darted up to watch him pass, whispering before running off again.
Ashwing puffed himself slightly, proud to ride his shoulder like a king. 'They're staring at us. I think they like me.'
"They're staring at me," Lindarion corrected.
'No, definitely me,' Ashwing chirped. 'Look, one of them smiled. Maybe they think I'm cute.'
Lindarion snorted faintly, the smallest hint of humor breaking through his usually cold expression. He didn't deny it.
The bridges led him higher. He climbed stairs woven into the bark itself, each step broad enough for three men to walk side by side. From above, the city revealed itself fully. It wasn't scattered houses, it was alive, pulsing, a harmony between elf and tree. Waterfalls spilled down from platforms to nourish gardens below. Lanterns strung between branches swayed with the breeze, glass catching the morning sun like captured stars.
Ashwing's voice grew hushed. 'It's… big.'
"Yes," Lindarion said quietly. His gaze drifted across the canopy to the heart of Lorienya. There, rising above all else, was the trunk of the World Tree. Its bark shimmered faintly with veins of light, ancient and endless, each branch stretching so far it seemed to brush the clouds themselves.
Even he, who had seen wonders across continents, paused.
Ashwing tilted his head. 'Do you think it could hide me when I grow?'
Lindarion's hand brushed the lizard's back gently. "Perhaps."
They descended again, weaving through lesser tiers. Here, the elves' lives unfolded in simple beauty. Farmers tended to vines strung across platforms, weaving roots into baskets. A group of children played with carved wooden swords, their laughter sharp as bells. An old elf plucked at a harp, the song curling through the air like a prayer.
Ashwing wriggled restlessly. 'They look so happy. Like they don't know anything bad is out there.'
"They don't," Lindarion said, his tone unreadable. "The World Tree shields them. Their peace is not ignorance, it's protection."
'But it won't last forever,' Ashwing murmured.
"No. Nothing does."
Still, he let himself linger. He let the morning wash over him, the taste of fruit a merchant pressed into his hand without charge, the sound of a waterfall's spray, the feel of sunlight breaking through branches. For a moment, the weight of command, of blood, of the humans chanting his name in caverns, seemed distant.
He was just Lindarion. Just a son who had wandered too far.
But shadows never lingered far.
Near the edge of the lower tier, where roots broke through earth and merged with the stone below, his steps slowed. A statue stood there, carved directly from the trunk itself. It depicted a woman, tall, serene, her features ageless, her hand raised as though blessing the city. Vines curled naturally around her form, blossoms spilling like tears.
An elf knelt before it, whispering prayers in Lorienyan tongue. When Lindarion passed, the elf's eyes flicked up, recognition dawning.
"Prince," he murmured, bowing his head.
Lindarion hesitated, then inclined his own head slightly before moving on.
Ashwing shifted. 'You didn't like that.'
"I don't want their prayers."
'But they're giving them anyway,' Ashwing replied.
"Yes," Lindarion said, his voice darkening. "And that is what makes them dangerous."
The morning stretched on. He wandered further than he intended, weaving paths until the council's chamber was only a faint memory among leaves. He saw the artisans, the children, the music, the markets. He saw the way the elves lived, rooted, shielded, untouched.
And he knew, deep within, that the peace of Lorienya was not for him.
When the sun reached its peak and the canopy glowed with midday fire, he turned back at last. Ashwing's head rested against his neck, dozing lightly, tail flicking with the rhythm of dreams.
Lindarion's steps were silent as he returned toward the higher branches. He carried the memory of peace like a blade sheathed, ready but hidden.
Because peace, he knew, was never more than borrowed time.