The Hollow Root Grove was alive.
Truly alive—not in the corrupted, choking way it had been under Elaen's twisted will, but pulsing with fresh breath. Its roots curled toward the sky, branches no longer inverted but outstretched. Flowers bloomed where rot had once oozed.
The Verdant Soul sang here.
And that song… spread.
It moved like a tide through the forest.
Beasts paused. Leaves turned. The air shimmered faintly, carrying the melody farther than sound should travel.
And in the farthest edge of the known woods—beyond cliffs and ridgelines scorched by battles long past—it reached the Scar.
The Scar was a valley carved not by wind or rain, but by song.
A battle from ages ago had sundered the land, leaving a great wound that could never quite heal. It hummed, always, a low reverberation deep in the stone—sometimes beautiful, sometimes painful, never silent.
Now it heard something new.
And responded.
Thalindra stood at the Grove's edge, her sister Elaen asleep beneath the canopy, recovering slowly. The Grove would protect her now—no longer a prison, but a sanctuary.
Kaelen approached, wiping her blade with a piece of old silk. "She'll live."
"She'll heal," Thalindra replied. "That's more important."
Rowan crouched nearby, drawing lines in the dirt. "The song you summoned—whatever it was—it reached the Scar. I could feel it."
"The Singing Scar?" Kaelen asked. "I thought that was just a tale."
"No tale," Rowan said. "It's real. And someone's answered from within."
Thalindra's pulse quickened.
"Another one of us?"
Rowan nodded. "That's my guess. The land is responding like it did near the Mirror. And the rhythm coming from it… it's close to your mark."
By midmorning, they traveled.
The land shifted as they drew closer to the Scar. Trees grew sparse. The soil turned dark, burned in places. Strange crystals jutted from the ground like frozen lightning—residue from a battle of magic long past.
Kaelen muttered, "Doesn't feel like forest anymore."
Thalindra crouched and pressed her hand to the soil.
It vibrated—like a drumbeat.
Rhythmic.
Deliberate.
"Someone is down there," she said. "And they're singing back."
They reached the edge of the Singing Scar by nightfall.
It was breathtaking—massive cliffs fell away into a deep valley where light bent unnaturally, shifting between hues. Pools of water glowed from below. Floating stones hovered in midair. Echoes of ancient spells drifted like pollen.
And at its center, seated on a stone surrounded by luminous vines, was a woman.
Elven, maybe half-elven.
Her hair was woven with crystal threads, her robes layered in soot-stained linen.
She was humming.
Eyes closed.
Not just meditating—channeling.
The Scar pulsed in time with her.
Thalindra stepped forward. "Hello?"
The woman opened her eyes—silver, glowing with songlight.
And smiled.
"I've been waiting," she said.
"Leafweaver."