Lindarion stared at the fading visions. The Tree's pulse, always faintly echoing in his mind, felt heavier now, denser. He could feel its rhythm under his skin, in his breath. It wasn't malevolent… but it was vast, endless, indifferent.
He sheathed his sword slowly. "If what you say is true, then why warn me? What do you gain?"
Veyrath turned away, his voice like velvet stretched thin over old scars. "Because I was once like you." He reached out, pressing his hand against the wall of the vault. The runes nearest his touch flared gold, then dimmed again. "Chosen. Blessed. Fed until I was nothing but the will of another. And when I tried to cut the roots that bound me…"
He looked back, eyes gleaming with bitter amusement. "…they made me their keeper."
A long silence fell.
Ashwing's tail coiled tightly. "So what—you want pity? Forgiveness?"
