The path beneath Ash's feet wound downward, slick with dew, as root-arches curled over them like the ribs of some great slumbering beast. The moss underfoot pulsed softly, like a heartbeat too slow for mortals to sense. Bioluminescent vines hung in long, trembling strands overhead, their pale light painting the world in shades of moonlit green and haunting violet.
Ash walked slowly, eyes darting to every flicker of light and shadow, "This place… it's not natural," he murmured.
"It's not supposed to be," Tholn said without looking at him, "The Nest remembers things older than names."
Each step felt like descending into a breathing cathedral. The walls were not stone but bark — ancient, knotted, and veined with glowing mycelium that shifted in color like slow lightning. Soft spores drifted through the air like lazy snowflakes, catching light in their descent.
"What are those spores?" Ash asked, watching one settle on his arm.
