By midday, the root fragment flared hot against Argolaith's hip.
It pulsed with a steady rhythm, faster than before, guiding him through the shattered valley and over a ridge of pale rock that jutted like broken teeth from the earth. As they crested the final rise, Kaelred shielded his eyes and let out a low whistle.
"Well. That looks… sacred."
Below them stood a tree.
It rose from the center of a wide, sunken grove, its trunk thick and pale-silver, branches sprawling like fingers stretched skyward. Wisps of golden mist curled around its roots, and glowing runes shimmered along its bark in slow, spiraling patterns. The air around it shimmered faintly, like heat rising off stone.
"It looks exactly like the first vision I saw," Argolaith said, breath shallow.
Even Thae'Zirak was quiet, perched on a boulder, eyes narrow.
But Malakar's voice was cold. "Too perfect."
Kaelred turned to him. "What do you mean?"
