The air shimmered again.
But this time, the call did not come from Iyonmana.
It came from Draug — whispered through the veins of silver leaves and black bark, carried by starlight, soaked in the scent of old blood and older memory.
When the Conduits arrived once more in the space-between — that sacred grove where all five Trees touched — they found Veyrix already waiting.
He stood at the heart of the convergence, arms folded, expression unreadable for once. The thorny veil of his cloak was subdued. His eyes, usually gleaming with amusement, were narrowed — somber.
“Well, don’t everyone look so surprised,” he drawled, softer than usual. “Even a prince of petals like me can get serious. On rare occasions. Usually when history starts… glitching.”
Iyonmana stepped forward, golden braids humming with solar current. “You called us,” she said carefully.
“I did.” He gestured with one ringed hand, and behind him — suspended midair like a phantom relic — flickered several glowing memory threads. Some pulsed brightly. Others were… blank.
“These are recordings of the past week,” Veyrix said. “Pulled from the roots of Draug — the deepest roots. They archive everything. Every heartbeat. Every leaf that ever fell.”
He waved his hand, and a few scenes shimmered — a storm in Onda, a harvest in the lower plains, a crow nesting in the Tree of Opia.
Then the blankness returned. Whole spans of time. Void.
“But some entries are missing,” he said quietly. “Erased, or never written. That never happens. Not unless something has interrupted the flow of memory.”
Eladriel’s brow furrowed. “You think the roots themselves are damaged?”
Veyrix shook his head. “No. I checked the crown and the heart. Draug is intact. But the absence isn’t random — it’s… directional. Centered.”
“Centered where?” Zephyros asked, voice like falling dusk.
Veyrix turned, and with a flick of his hand, a silver map unfurled beneath them, shaped from rootlight and breath.
“The Temple of Aramathi. The Convergence. Where all our roots meet.”
A pause fell over the grove.
Eladriel was the first to break it. “If the memory threads are faltering at the Convergence, it could suggest—”
“That something is tampering with the flow of time,” Veyrix finished. “Or reality itself.”
Zephyros stepped forward then, folding his arms behind his back. “If this is true, we must keep it hidden. From Aletheia. From the courts. From the Twelve Orders. If word spreads that the roots are unstable, panic will follow — and the capital will twist it into a power struggle.”
“Agreed,” Syrin said gravely. “The apprentices should be the ones to go. Quietly. No grand summons. No declarations.”
He touched the pool beneath him — and a ripple spread through the map.
“We send them to Aramathi under the pretense of a routine root-check. That way, if nothing is wrong, nothing is lost. But if something is…” His voice hardened. “Then we act.”
Iyonmana’s gaze grew distant, golden eyes shadowed by dread. “It may not be the Tree itself,” she whispered. “What if it’s someone? What if this is a prelude — a testing of the bark — before a deeper strike is made?”
The Conduits were silent.
Then Veyrix, for once, did not make a joke.
Instead, he nodded slowly. “You mean… Ulrich.”
“I don’t know,” Iyonmana said, hand curling tightly over her chest. “But this… this has the feel of something ancient. Something that knows us. And if Ulrich is stirring…”
Veyrix frowned. “It wouldn’t make sense. He doesn’t lie beneath the roots. He lies elsewhere. Beyond the Ridge. Beyond the reach of the Trees.”
Zephyros’s tone deepened. “Then maybe the Trees are not the target. Maybe they are the path.”
A long pause.
Then Eladriel exhaled and nodded. “Very well. Let the apprentices go.”
“I’ll send Illyth,” she said. “And Aelar will go with him.”
“I’ll send mine,” Iyonmana added softly. “Uwa and Idia. They are ready.”
Veyrix smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then I suppose I’ll let my girl chase ghosts after all. Sigrun will go.”
Zephyros turned toward the space where the air had begun to shimmer with seafoam light.
“…And so will Zeiren.”
The pact was unspoken, but sealed.
And far below, at the base of the Temple of Aramathi, where five roots touched stone and breath turned to silence…
A single memory unspooled backward.
And then vanished.
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