The Chamber of Woven Judgment breathed around her— a long, patient inhalation that made the membranes beneath every boot flex like thin ice on a thawing pond. Translucent light rolled upward through those roots in irregular surges, casting brief flares across the elders' faces and turning their eyes into reflective pools. Each ripple seemed to weigh whoever stood above it, assigning an unseen measure of worth.
Sylvanna took a step forward, feeling that light climb her boots, her calves, her spine, as if the tree itself were taking her pulse. The hush pressed against her eardrums; no cough, no rustle of parchment, not even the creak of ancient joints broke the atmosphere. When her fingertip brushed the string of her bow—for reassurance, not threat—the faint scrape sounded indecently loud.
