A wave of murmurs swept through the hall, rolling in thick, overlapping layers of disbelief. Some nobles clutched at the edges of their robes as though bracing against an invisible gust, while others whispered sharply into cupped hands, their expressions flickering between doubt and awe.
A few scoffed—mere skeptics, unwilling to believe in miracles even when drenched in their glow. But most, whether they wanted to or not, felt it.
The divine aura radiating from the gnarled root was unmistakable. It did not impose itself, did not roar for attention like the holy relics enshrined in the holy Cathedral.
Instead, it was insidious, threading itself into the air like creeping ivy, silent and patient. It slithered into the skin, curled around the bones, and whispered something—not words, not thoughts, but something far more primal—directly into the soul.
