In the morning they left the Singing Grove. Following them, a quiet song of the tree's tail behind them – it drifted away on the wind. Serakha held its memory in its memory like a warm ember, or set, pulsing gently with each step she took. But there was no enough talk from her, her eyes were distant, listening to something only she could hear.
Now the road rose gradually west. The trees got thin once more on the hills, which were blanketed in rough grass and gray stone. The ground grew harder. Less moss, more gravel. The colors dulled. Slate and ash faded in greens and golds. Here the air was cooler, sharper — if even the wind knew no longer how to offer kindness.
His blade was near his hand as he walked. He mutters, 'I don't like this.' "Too quiet. No birds."
Arden replied, "They don't come this way." "Not many things do."
He already knew, but he asked why.
"Because the mountain sings a different song," she spake.
