The corridors of Hematheas were quieter than Ilyrana remembered.
Not empty—never empty—but restrained, as though every footstep was measured, every voice softened by reverence for the living walls that curved overhead. Pale light filtered through veins of crystal grown into the stone, casting faint patterns across the floor as she walked, her fingers brushing lightly against the smooth surface beside her.
Home still felt strange.
She turned a corner—and halted.
Ahead stood a small group of elves, their presence immediately distinct. They were not dressed in the flowing robes or light travelwear common within the castle. Instead, they wore fitted armour of layered silverleaf and hardened barksteel, etched with runes of authority rather than magic. The craftsmanship was unmistakably royal.
Female elves.
At their centre stood a figure Ilyrana recognised even before her gaze reached the woman's eyes.
Irithiel.
