The path into the Hollow of Origins coiled downward in soft half-circles, each bend swallowing a little more daylight until greens faded to cool, watery blues. Sylvanna's footfalls kept an even rhythm, but every few steps she felt the ground's living pulse answer— thump, thump— as though the forest were counting the intruder's heartbeats.
A wardancer dropped back to close the line, leaf-motif cloak brushing her shoulder just long enough to steer her away from a dangling rope of night-bloom ivy. The gesture was wordless courtesy, yet the warrior's other hand never strayed far from the curved dagger at his hip. Trust, she noted, was still a negotiation.
Above, through a slotted arch of braided roots, the Guardian crouched on a watchers' ledge carved for spirits, not beasts. Raëdrithar's chest rose in slow tidal swells, silver eye tracking her every step. Lightning quivered under its pelt—tiny white threads trying to decide whether to hiss or to rest.
