Luke stepped out of the grand chamber, Ilyrana close by his side, the weight of the discussion lingering like an unshakable haze. The ornately carved doors groaned shut behind them, the muffled echo a sombre reminder of the constraints that now shackled his path.
As they made their way through the dimly lit corridor, King Eroan's voice called out, calm and composed.
"Mage," he said, stepping forward with a practised air of benevolence. "I strongly suggest you take refuge here in Hematheas for now. The elves will be instructed to immediately clear the path to the Tesser. Rest assured, we will notify you the moment it is safe to travel."
Luke paused, caught in the web of political courtesy and practical necessity. Of course, he had no other real choice but to accept. Hematheas was the only bastion in this land of towering woods and ancient mysteries. To leave without a destination—or worse, to challenge Eroan's authority by declining the offer—would be a fool's errand.
