The deeper parts of Samera were wild in a way that defied logic. Roots grew over moonlight. Birds spoke in reverse. Trees shifted when unobserved. Manon didn't stop. She followed the pull in her chest—the direction the dream had given her.
Gnarledwood Grove. The root that remembers.
She found it near dusk. Or what counted for dusk here—when the sun blinked once, briefly, and was gone, leaving behind a sky that crackled faintly with static.
The grove was ancient, even by fae standards. The trees there were massive, their bark knotted with faces half-swallowed by time. The air was dense with memory, the kind that pressed against your skin like fog.
Manon stepped inside the ring of trees.
"You are far from the leash, little mortal."
The voice came from behind her, but she didn't turn. She knew better.
"You called me here," she said.
"I gave you a name. I did not expect you to listen."
Manon turned slowly.
