As soon as the execution was stopped, Yuuta was carried to the medical hall.
The journey was silent. The elves who bore him, two senior healers with wings of pale gold, moved through the corridors of the World Tree with a gentleness that seemed almost reverent. Their hands, accustomed to the broken bodies of warriors and the fragile forms of newborn children, cradled the small, unconscious boy as if he were made of glass.
Behind them walked Elder Theilon. His staff tapped against the living wood floor with each step, the rhythm slow and deliberate. His ancient face, usually so composed, was carved with lines of sorrow that had not been there that morning.
He had seen much in his long life. He had witnessed wars and famines and the death of nations. But he had never seen a child so broken.
