Before long, the road—if it could still be called one—ended in white stone.
The gate of Hematheas rose from the land like something grown rather than built, pale arches entwined with living vines, crystal veins running faintly beneath the surface like slow-moving veins of light. It stood open to the sky, untouched by walls, because Ashenfen itself had always been the true barrier. And now, stepping out from the forest's shadow, Luke felt the weight of that transition settle over him.
They were noticed almost immediately.
A handful of elves emerged from the gate's inner watch posts, their movements smooth and deliberate. White skin caught the fading sunlight, hair like spun silver and moonlight, eyes sharp yet calm. Pure elves. Hematheas-born. Like Ilyrana.
Luke barely had time to register the subtle shift in the air before every single one of them stopped.
Their gazes locked onto Ilyrana.
And then—without hesitation—they bowed.
