The gate closed behind him with a low groan of steel.
Argolaith didn't look back.
Ahead of him stretched a vast grassland, endless and wind-swept. At first glance, it seemed peaceful—tall green blades swaying softly in the breeze, clusters of pale-blue wildflowers blooming like forgotten starlight. Birds wheeled lazily in the air far above, and the sky, though gray, was vast and open.
But Argolaith felt it immediately.
Something was wrong.
The air was too still.
The silence was too perfect.
He stepped forward, boot crunching lightly against the grass.
There was no rot. No twisted roots. No malformed monsters prowling the horizon like in the lands near the other trees.
It was… serene.
Cultivated.
He crouched, touched the earth.
The soil was rich. The grass was healthy. But everything in him—his instinct, his experience, the very pulse of his body—told him this was no untouched wilderness.
This land had not survived.
It had been maintained.
By force.
