Valttair du Morgain ascended the elven tower one step at a time, the sound of his boots muted by the living wood beneath them. The dark oak was not dead nor forcibly carved; it breathed. Each stair carried uneven veins and slow pulses of mana, flowing through the structure like sap, while ancient roots emerged from the walls only to sink back into the wood higher up, intertwining naturally—as if the tower itself had chosen to grow skyward of its own will.
Nature ruled this place without pretense. Not as decoration, but as authority. Fine moss traced the handrails, slender leaves pushed through the seams of the wood, and a soft yet constant pressure lingered in the air, reminding anyone who entered that they were walking within Sylvanel territory. A domain where magic was not cast, but cultivated.
Valttair smiled.
