The next morning, with Calwen at her side and Elyra very close to her shoulder, Serenya followed Maruk toward Tabore-Bane. Both Calwen and Elyra had their own reservations and reasons to avoid that expedition. However, the lady's words could not be ignored, and the weight of the crow's call still echoed in the air like a persistent whisper from the forest.
The Legion maintained formation, their armour resounding too loudly for the forest, clashing, and creaking with every step that sank into the moss under their heavy boots. The metal groaned against the natural stillness, a discordant reminder of colliding worlds. Meanwhile, the Watchers slipped like specters through the dappled shadows, communicating with subtle gestures and profound silences; their movements, fluid and almost otherworldly, blending with the sway of the leaves. The contrast between both groups was striking; their worlds and ways, so different, became evident in every branch they brushed or dodged.
Finally, they reached the edge of the grove, where the dawn light filtered in golden beams dancing over the damp ground. Maruk raised his hand in a silent command, halting the advance with the precision of a closing root. "Beyond lies the clearing of Batien," he said, his voice measured and grave, as if the words themselves carried the weight of ancient secrets. "Sira waits there. But only a few can cross the sacred forest, for its threshold judges those who profane it."
Calwen straightened with contained fury, his hand clenched on the hilt of his sword, knuckles white under his gauntlets. His eyes burned with the distrust forged in past battles, recalling the shadows that had stalked in previous chapters. Serenya silenced him with a single look, firm as the sapphire she bore, conveying a calm that hid her own growing tension. "The Legion will guard the entrance," she ordered firmly, resounding like an unbreakable decree. "Elyra, Calwen… come with me. If this is the truth, no wall of steel will protect me from it, and the forest will demand its own verdict."
With the crow shifting restlessly on her shoulder, its talons pricking the fabric of her cloak like tiny warning needles, Serenya took a step forward. Its eyes gleamed like dark gems, reflecting the silvery light emanating from the threshold. The wooden door opened with a flash of silver light, dissolving the mist as it parted under Maruk's influence, revealing a path snaking between ancestral trunks. But as she crossed, a whisper of wind seemed laden with a question: was she ready for what the clearing held, or would the forest reject her like so many before?
As she crossed the threshold, the trees seemed to close around her, their branches intertwining overhead like skeletal fingers brushing the dawn light. The air thickened with the scent of ancient resin and damp earth, enveloping her in an oppressive stillness that echoed the legends of Tabore-Bane told in past chapters. Beneath the largest of the ancient trees, its rough bark etched with forgotten runes, Sira awaited in a small cabin, fragile yet persistent, as if time itself had sculpted her from moss and memories. The golden light spread as Maruk crossed the threshold, his green-painted skin glowing as if the entire forest claimed him as its own.
Serenya followed, her cloak brushing the moss under her boots with a soft sound that echoed in the sacred stillness. Elyra and Calwen flanked her, eyes alert in a mix of curiosity and deep wariness, hands near their hilts as a reflection of the tension lived in the swamp shadows and island spirals. Behind her, the Legion's voices faded gradually, a deep and stinging reminder that she was no longer under their armoured protection, leaving only the accelerated pulse of her heart and the crow's low caw.
The air smelled of damp earth after rain, mixed with the sticky sweetness of resin and the piercing freshness of dew pearling the leaves. Oldest of branches leaned inward toward the clearing, trapping sunlit glimmers between their broad, veined leaves, creating living dance patterns. The ground vibrated under their feet with a silent but perceptible hum, an ancestral sensation awakening something dormant within her: a deep connection to the earth and its immemorial power, akin to Ouralis's pulse described in prior visions.
Calwen's hand brushed his sword's pommel, a habitual and almost reflexive gesture, muscles tense under his armour. But he did not draw it; he felt the place's sanctity like an invisible pressure on his chest, reminding him of loyalty trials in the camp. Serenya breathed slowly, steeling her resolve as she prepared to face what awaited beyond the cabin. If the truth lies ahead… she repeated to herself, her heart pounding hard against her ribs. She was a warrior, a commander, daughter of unyielding lineages forged in the northern peaks. But there, without her legion, she was no more than a child in time's tribunal, vulnerable to the secrets Sira guarded.
The crow shifted on her shoulder, talons pricking her cloak more insistently; its low caw neither a warning nor comfort; it was something in between, a sound hovering like a laden omen, as the clearing seemed to hold its breath at her arrival.
As she approached the cabin, Serenya saw Sira clearly for the first time, her silhouette outlined against the filtered dawn light. The old woman sat on a rug woven of silver, gold, and fine silk; her fragile figure seemed to merge with the clearing's surroundings, like roots intertwined with the earth. Weathered like an ancient parchment exposed to centuries of wind, Sira seemed sculpted from Batien clearing itself. Her endurance went beyond what flesh and bone could bear, a living testament to Ouralis and Vaelric stories echoing in previous chapters. But her presence was undeniable; her sunken yet bright eyes, like wells of wisdom, held the depth of centuries.
Her gnarled hand rested on a twisted staff, its wood twisting in defiance of nature, etched with spirals that seemed to pulse faintly. When she slowly raised her head, the earth seemed to tilt in response; the trees bowed as if paying homage to their eternal matriarch. Serenya felt reverence before the old woman and the power emanating from her, an aura that made her skin prickle and pulse quicken. She approached slowly, in reverent silence; the forest and grove held a collective breath, waiting for the inevitable with palpable tension in the air.
Maruk knelt on one knee in the damp earth, palm against his chest in absolute devotion, his voice filled with an ancestral timbre that vibrated through the clearing: "Matu." The sound hummed in the air like a name of profound meaning, evoking ancient pacts sealed with the island itself. Sira's lips curved barely into an ethereal smile, her eyes gleaming with a warmth and depth spanning a full century of existence. Her voice was thin but authoritative, carrying a nearly tangible weight that filled the space.