The name rippled through the chamber. For a moment, every voice hushed. Eldrin's name carried memory, of festivals, of battles fought side by side, of the Sunblade's brilliance cutting shadow from the edges of the world.
Vaelthorn's brow furrowed deeply.
"Eldrin," he rumbled. "The last I saw of him was not in triumph, but in silence. His host vanished to the east. We know not if he still breathes." His eyes hardened. "And now his son comes to us, carrying mortals on his shoulders. A boy who does not yet know the weight of centuries."
"Yet he fights," Sylwen countered quietly. "And more, he inspires. Did you not feel it, Vaelthorn? His words burn. He could have demanded sanctuary as his right, but instead he offered it as oath. To stand in his father's shadow, and yet speak with his own fire… That is no small thing."
Thariel spat the words as though they were poison. "Inspiration is the tool of tyrants. He wields it well already. Did you not see how those humans looked at him? As if he were flame itself? If we grant him sanctuary, he will carve a throne in their faith, and soon enough his voice will carry more weight than ours."
"Perhaps it should," murmured Eiraeth, too soft for many to hear.
But Sylwen did. And her lips curved faintly.
Elder Fenrel raised his hand, commanding silence once more. His voice was frail yet carried the weight of authority older than kingdoms.
"Let us speak of truth. If we turn the mortals away, they will perish. The boy will perish with them, or he will carry them elsewhere, and Lorienya will have made no ally but another ghost. If we take them in, we invite chaos into our roots. Either path carries risk."
He closed his eyes briefly, then reopened them, sharp as steel despite his years.
"So the question is not whether we act without consequence, but which consequence we are prepared to endure."
The chamber stilled.
Vaelthorn's great hands folded together, his gaze sweeping the gathered councilors. "Speak your hearts, each of you."
And so they did.
Thariel spoke first, venom unhidden. "Cast them out. Let the mortals die beyond our branches. Their prince may follow, if he wishes to tether his fate to theirs. Better their corpses than their seed in our soil."
A ripple of agreement followed, harsh voices echoing.
Eiraeth rose next, voice clear as water. "Grant them sanctuary. Even if only for a season. They need food, shelter, healing. If they betray our kindness, then exile them, but let us not stain the roots of the World Tree with their blood when we might have offered shade."
This time, fewer voices followed, but those who did spoke firmly.
Others wavered, some offering compromises: let the mortals stay on the edge of the forest, never within the city; grant them aid but not home; permit them to recover, but not remain.
The council split like branches twisting in opposite directions.
Sylwen finally stood. The queen's presence quieted the chamber at once.
"Eldrin's son is no ordinary boy," she said. "Nor is he merely a weapon to be weighed as ally or foe. He is a storm. Deny him, and he will rage against the world until it bends or breaks. Grant him this chance, and perhaps his storm may shield us rather than strike us."
Her gaze swept the chamber, unwavering. "I say we grant them sanctuary, not in fear of mortals, not in deference to Eldrin, but because we must not close our roots against the wounded. If the World Tree shelters all life, who are we to deny its will?"
Vaelthorn leaned back in his seat, silent for a long time. His eyes lingered on his queen, then swept across the councilors who argued like wind against branches.
Finally, his voice rumbled low, decisive.
"The boy has fire. Too much, perhaps. But fire may burn, or it may guard. For now, we will see which he becomes."
He rose slowly, towering as the chamber fell silent.
"My judgment will be given at dawn."
The councilors stirred, some muttering approval, others bristling. But none defied his word.
The debate ended, but unease remained. Whispers clung to the chamber walls, echoing long after the council dispersed.
And in the hollow silence that followed, Sylwen's quiet words lingered most of all:
A storm has come to Lorienya. Will we root ourselves against it, or let it carry us forward?
—
The dawn above Lorienya was unlike any other dawn Lindarion had known.
The first sliver of light bled through the vast canopy, caught in the emerald lattice of leaves high above and scattered into a thousand fractured beams. The city stirred quietly in those shafts of brilliance, homes of woven bark and carved wood glowing faintly, branches alive with songbirds, the hum of insects rising like a chorus.
Peace.
It felt wrong.
Lindarion stood at the balcony of the guest quarters they had given him, the scent of moss and dew clinging to the air. Below, the humans who had come with him were stirring as well, clustered in small groups. Some slept on the woven platforms, others sat watchfully at the edges, distrust and awe still fighting in their gazes as they looked upon the city of elves.
Nysha leaned against the balcony rail, arms folded, crimson eyes locked on the distant towers woven from living trees. Her shadows curled faintly, restless even in the morning calm.
"They're watching us," she murmured.
"I know," Lindarion said.
"Not just watching. Judging. They'll dress it in silk, but that's what it is." She turned, her gaze sharp on him. "You trust them too easily."
He didn't answer right away. His hand lingered against the hilt of his sword, the blade quiet for once. Selene remained asleep in his core, her warmth withdrawn, and Ashwing had curled into his lap some hours ago in the form of a little lizard, now dozing with his head tucked beneath a wing.
"I don't trust them," he said finally. "I know they're deciding whether to keep us… or cut us loose."
Nysha's lip curled faintly. "Cut us loose would be kinder than what they could do."
The truth in her words clung like frost.