Then he sensed it: breath that wasn't his own, drifting around him but only around him. He froze, arms against a great rock, tree roots below whispering. The island exhaled.
Where earlier had been mist, now stood shimmering trails that bent like smoke, gathering among the trees farther up. He pushed forward, feeling the lifetime of memories swelling in his mind. He recognized the crackle in the air, electric, like static; he smelled something cleaner, a memory of washed linen; he heard low promise in the air.
About ninety paces up, a figure waited by a fallen pillar, another relic, its weight covered in moss. And with the blur of motion he knew well, a flicker of blue, like stained-glass under water, it rose into view.
It's not forming. It's unraveling, shifting. A silhouette that, as he approached, flickered from animalistic shape to humanoid form, regal stance, too tall to be human, limbs ropy, head horned with vines. Its surface flickered like light through leaves.
