Sylara's boots halted on the threshold of the glade. She hadn't expected the place to feel alive beneath her soles, roots flexing just enough to acknowledge her weight. It was as if the forest tasted every stranger who crossed its skin. She tried not to imagine what judgment it rendered.
Above, the last blush of sunset bled into cobalt. Lantern-moths spun lazy spirals between branches, throwing amber crescents across the clearing. One flickered too close; she jerked back, heartbeat tripping before she realized it was harmless. A ridiculous reaction—she'd hand-fed razorbeaks without flinching—yet her pulse drummed like a caged sparrow.
Draven moved first, unhurried, the hem of his coat brushing moss without rustling a leaf. The elves parted for him the way night parts for firelight—no comments, just a collective shift that ended with him on a low mat near the center fire. He sat cross-legged, back straight, as though the arrangement of his limbs determined gravity's obedience.
