The forest didn't tremble—it listened.
Every root, every leaf, every ancient strand of bark pulled inward, responding to the command of something older than language.
The woman—no, the spirit—lifted her hand without ceremony. Her hair billowed like the wind didn't dare touch it. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"They've slumbered long enough."
A low groan rumbled through the woods that surrounded the academy like a crown of green. The trees twisted, not from wind, but from intent—bark cracking, vines unraveling, branches shifting against each other like skeletal limbs pulling free of old graves.
From the shadows between trunks, three shapes began to form. No summoning circle. No arcane glyph. Just nature—called forward and molded.
