The valley waited.
It stretched below like a still breath held between mountains—its trees towering in silence, thick and ancient, their leaves coated in a film of pale luminescence.
The glow that Argolaith had seen the night before was stronger now. It drifted like mist between the trunks, soft and ghostlike, breathing in slow pulses that didn't match the wind or any natural rhythm.
They stood at the threshold.
The slope behind them had been long and steep, cutting through frost-scarred stone and veins of black crystal. Now, at the edge of the valley, the world seemed to change—not just in temperature or air quality, but in atmosphere.
The forest ahead didn't feel like part of the world at all.
It felt like a memory someone had forgotten to bury.
Kaelred adjusted the straps of his satchel and muttered, "Alright. Let me guess. The trees inside whisper your name and then try to turn your bones into soup?"
Argolaith didn't smile. He stepped forward without a word.
