Seravine took one last look at Estes—who was now nursing a mildly bruised ego and an aggressively vibrating wrist—as he cradled Caspian's sword like a golden trophy in some mock victory parade.
"Try not to miss me too much!" Seravine called sweetly over her shoulder. Estes responded with a single, pointed gesture that was definitely not in any ancient Elven etiquette manual.
The entrance behind them creaked shut with the ancient groan of bark and magic, sealing them in with the ominous finality of someone slamming a particularly emotional diary.
Now alone, Seravine and Caspian stood before the entrance of the "underground sanctum"—or as Estes so majestically put it, The Arboreal Sanctum of Whispered Flames and Eternal Penance, which frankly sounded like a discount yoga retreat for cursed souls.
They began their descent in silence, the heavy kind of silence that smelled like old secrets and mild regret.
