The sanctuary was quiet. Too quiet.
A faint mist rolled through the valley as dawn crept over the horizon, painting the treetops in silver. The stream whispered softly through the rocks, yet even the sound of flowing water couldn’t ease the tension that hung in the air.
Eryndor sat apart from the group, his back against an ancient stone covered in moss and runes. His reflection wavered in the stream, eyes shadowed, haunted, uncertain. He no longer knew if the face staring back at him was truly his own.
Lirien stood a few paces away, tracing symbols in the air, testing the sanctuary’s wards. “The magic here is old,” she murmured. “Older than anything I’ve ever felt. It’s like the forest itself remembers what was lost.”
Thorne grunted as he sharpened his sword. “Then let it remember fast
