The shift of language felt physical; consonants rang like hammered bronze, vowels curved with the hush of unfurling petals. The chamber's root membranes dimmed in reverence, recognizing ancestral cadence even if many present had never mastered it. Quills stilled. The half-elves dared not breathe.
"Elarith Quor marches not to conquer—but to reclaim," Draven intoned. His voice was low, measured, as though reading from stone tablets older than the hall itself. "Their king lies beneath broken crowns, yet priests remember. They knot rite to root, will to wound. What birthright once slipped between their fingers, they now seek to grasp by breaking bonds."
His pronunciation held flawless lilt: that precise glottal stop after rith, the soft fade of will into wound. Elders leaned forward unconsciously, some lips moving in quiet echo as if desperate to taste forgotten syllables. A single tear tracked down Lievalan's weathered cheek—nostalgia or awe, Sylvanna could not tell.
