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Chapter 46: Reflections of the Fallen

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Eldergrove’s Lament

The forest of Eldergrove, once a symbol of peace and harmony in Valandor, now stood in stark contrast to its former self. What had once been a sanctuary of vibrant life was now a landscape marred by battle, its once-majestic trees standing like ancient sentinels, wounded but unbroken. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, mingling with the faint, lingering traces of the dark magic that had coursed through the land.

As the group walked through the outskirts of the grove, silence hung heavy between them. Their footsteps were muffled by the soft soil, and the only sound was the distant rustling of the wind through the leaves. The weight of their recent battles pressed on their shoulders, and though they had won the day against Galen, the scars of that victory were still raw.

Branwen led the way, her connection to the land guiding her steps. Her gaze was fixed on the ground beneath her feet, her fingers brushing against the bark of the trees as if trying to communicate with them, to understand their pain. She could feel the life of Eldergrove—still there, but weakened. The Aetheric Currents, once flowing freely and harmoniously through the natural world, were fragile, their rhythm disrupted by Galen’s corruption.

“The land is mourning,” Branwen said softly, her voice filled with quiet sorrow. “Eldergrove was the heart of Valandor, connected to the Aetheric Currents in ways most will never understand. What Galen did here—it’s left a scar that will take time to heal.”

Archer, walking beside her, nodded silently. She could see it in the trees—the subtle droop of their branches, the dimness in the leaves that had once shimmered with ethereal light. Though not as connected to the land as Branwen, Archer could still feel the shift in the air, a disturbance that mirrored the unease that had settled in her own heart.

Behind them, Phineas and Lysander followed, their expressions grim as they took in the damage. Phineas, ever the steady protector, kept his eyes on the horizon, as if expecting danger to lurk even in the aftermath of their victory. Lysander, meanwhile, was lost in thought, his mind undoubtedly turning over the mysteries of the currents and the ancient forces they had only begun to understand.

Selene, Darian, and Eldric moved in silence, each lost in their own reflections. Selene’s sharp gaze swept over the landscape, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her dagger. She had always been a creature of the shadows, but even she could not ignore the devastation that had befallen Eldergrove. Darian, for his part, kept his usual wry comments to himself, the weight of their journey evident in the tightness of his posture. Eldric, ever the scholar, walked with a solemn grace, his eyes lingering on the fractured remains of the sacred forest.

“Can it be saved?” Archer finally asked, breaking the silence that had stretched on for too long.

Branwen paused, closing her eyes as she placed both hands on the trunk of an ancient tree. She stood still for several moments, her face drawn in concentration as she reached out with her magic, searching for the life force of the grove. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost distant.

“Yes,” she said, though her tone was heavy with the weight of responsibility. “It can be saved, but it will take time. The land is resilient, but what Galen did has left deep wounds. The currents here are still in turmoil. We can heal them, but it won’t be easy.”

Archer placed a hand on Branwen’s shoulder, offering silent support. “We’ll do whatever it takes. We can’t let Eldergrove fall.”

Branwen nodded, though her expression remained troubled. “I’ll need the help of the druids. We’ll need to draw on the old magics—the ancient rituals that haven’t been used in centuries. It’s the only way to restore balance to the currents.”

Lysander, overhearing their conversation, stepped forward. “The currents are more unstable than I’ve ever seen them. If we can’t stabilize them here in Eldergrove, it could spread across all of Valandor. I’ve been studying the old texts, but even I don’t fully understand the extent of the damage.”

Phineas, always practical, crossed his arms over his chest. “Then we start here. We focus on stabilizing Eldergrove first. If this is where the heart of the disruption is, it’s where we need to make our stand.”

Archer agreed, but there was something else weighing on her mind. “And what about Galen? We know he’s not gone—not completely. The currents still echo with his presence. If he returns while we’re trying to heal the land...”

Lysander’s expression darkened. “He’ll come back. I don’t know when or how, but Galen’s not the type to let a setback like this stop him. He’s tied to the currents now, and that means he’ll always have a way to influence the world.”

Branwen’s face hardened. “Then we’ll be ready for him. But first, we must tend to the land. If we can restore Eldergrove, we’ll stand a better chance of facing whatever comes next.”

Eldric, who had remained quiet for most of the journey, finally spoke. “The old rituals will help. I’ve seen fragments of them in my research, but we’ll need to be careful. The magic we’re dealing with is ancient, and it could be as dangerous as it is powerful.”

Branwen gave a solemn nod. “I know the risks, Eldric. But we don’t have a choice. If we don’t act, the currents will remain in chaos, and Valandor will be vulnerable to any force that seeks to exploit them.”

Archer looked around at her companions, feeling the weight of their journey settling in her chest. They had come so far, fought so hard, and yet the road ahead seemed just as long, just as uncertain. But if there was one thing Archer had learned, it was that they were stronger together.

“We’ll rebuild Eldergrove,” she said firmly, her voice cutting through the gloom that had settled over them. “And when Galen returns, we’ll be ready.”

The forest of Eldergrove, once a sanctuary of vibrant life and natural harmony, now stood as a somber monument to the battle that had nearly torn Valandor apart. The towering trees that once shimmered with ethereal light were scarred, their branches bowed beneath the weight of Galen’s lingering corruption. The air was heavy, not only with the damp scent of earth but with the quiet lament of the land itself—a cry that Branwen could feel deep in her bones.

The group moved in silence as they entered the heart of the forest, their footsteps barely making a sound against the soft ground. The aftermath of the battle weighed heavily on all of them. Though they had survived, the cost of their victory hung over them like a shadow.

Branwen, who had always felt the pulse of the land more keenly than the others, slowed her pace as they neared the center of Eldergrove. She ran her fingers over the bark of an ancient tree, her brow furrowed in concentration. The magic that flowed through the forest—once a steady, peaceful current—was now fragmented, struggling to restore itself in the wake of Galen’s dark influence.

“The land is hurting,” she whispered, her voice thick with sorrow. “Eldergrove was the heart of Valandor’s connection to the Aetheric Currents. What happened here has left deep scars that will take time to heal.”

Archer walked beside her, her gaze sweeping over the broken branches and the once-pristine leaves, now dull and heavy. She could feel the weight of the forest’s pain, even if she couldn’t sense the magic as Branwen did. “Can it be healed?”

Branwen nodded slowly but didn’t meet her eyes. “Yes, but it won’t be easy. The Aetheric Currents are still in turmoil. They’re free from Galen’s control, but that freedom has left them wild and unstable. Eldergrove is where we’ll need to start the healing process.”

Behind them, Phineas and Lysander followed, both lost in thought. Phineas kept his sharp eyes on the perimeter, always on guard, though the immediate danger seemed to have passed. Lysander, on the other hand, was deep in contemplation, his mind clearly still occupied with the mysteries of the currents. He muttered softly to himself, no doubt turning over ancient prophecies and forgotten tomes in search of answers.

Selene, Darian, and Eldric trailed behind, each processing the aftermath in their own way. Selene’s usual cold demeanor was tempered by a quiet introspection, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her dagger. Darian’s usual wit was absent, replaced by a grim silence that betrayed his exhaustion. Even Eldric, typically aloof and scholarly, walked with a contemplative air, his eyes drifting over the devastation around them.

The silence weighed heavily between them until Archer finally spoke again. “If we can heal Eldergrove, will it stabilize the currents?”

Branwen took a deep breath, turning her gaze toward the ancient grove around them. “It’s a start. The land is resilient, but the currents have been disrupted in ways we can’t fully understand yet. We’ll need to draw on the old magics—the rituals of the druids, ones that haven’t been used for generations. Only then can we restore balance.”

Phineas, always the practical one, stepped closer. “Then that’s where we begin. We can’t let this spread.”

“It already is,” Lysander added, his voice quiet but firm. “The currents are connected to the very fabric of Valandor. If we don’t stabilize them here, the disruption could ripple across the entire land. And with Galen still out there, even as an echo, we can’t afford to leave this unfinished.”

Archer met his gaze, her jaw tightening. “We can’t let him return. Not while the currents are still unstable.”

Branwen straightened, her determination hardening. “I’ll need the help of the other druids. This isn’t something I can do alone.”

Lysander stepped forward, his tone grave. “The currents are more fragile than ever. I’ve read the prophecies about disruptions like this, but even those texts didn’t prepare me for the scale of what we’re dealing with. We’ll need more than just ritual. We’ll need to be vigilant.”

Eldric, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “I’ve seen fragments of the old rituals in my studies. We’ll need to be careful. The magic we’re dealing with here is ancient—far older than we might expect. If we’re not careful, we could make things worse.”

Branwen nodded in agreement, though her face was set with resolve. “I know the risks, Eldric, but we don’t have a choice. The land’s very soul is at stake.”

The weight of her words hung in the air, and for a moment, no one spoke. They all knew the gravity of what was at stake, but they also knew that they couldn’t afford to hesitate. Valandor needed them now more than ever.

“We’ll start here,” Phineas said, his voice steady. “We stabilize Eldergrove first, then we focus on protecting Valandor. If Galen’s coming back, we need to be ready.”

Archer nodded, her expression grim but determined. “We’ve faced him before. We’ll face him again, and we’ll be stronger for it.”

Branwen, ever attuned to the natural world, placed her hands on the ground, her eyes closing as she reached out to the Aetheric Currents. She could feel the pain of the land beneath her, but there was also a sense of resilience, of hope. Eldergrove was not lost—not yet.

As they stood there, the quiet determination of the group solidified. They had won the battle, but the war was far from over.

A Quiet Bond

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the recovering landscape of Eldergrove. The once broken and scarred land, still healing from the corruption and chaos of the Aetheric Currents, now pulsed with a gentle glow. Branwen had been working tirelessly with the remaining druids to guide the currents, coaxing the natural world to restore itself. The trees had begun to breathe again, their leaves rustling softly in the cool evening breeze, and the earth beneath them seemed to hum with the tentative promise of renewal.

Archer sat on a small rise overlooking the grove, her sword propped against her knee as she cleaned the blade methodically. The soft metallic scrape of her whetstone was almost meditative, allowing her mind to settle after the chaos of recent events. Her body was still sore, the battle with Galen having taken its toll, but the physical aches were nothing compared to the emotional weight she carried. Every victory felt tempered by the losses they had suffered, and the scars left behind felt deeper than any wound from the battlefield.

Nearby, Darian approached quietly, his usual lighthearted demeanor tempered by the gravity of their journey. He had been watching Archer from a distance for a while, sensing that she needed space but also knowing when it was time to break the silence.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, his voice softer than usual, a rare vulnerability lingering beneath the words.

Archer looked up, meeting his gaze with a faint smile. "It’s not much of a seat," she said, gesturing to the uneven rock beside her, "but you’re welcome to it."

Darian dropped down beside her, his movements graceful despite the obvious fatigue in his limbs. He leaned back on his hands, letting out a long sigh as he took in the view of the grove. For a while, neither of them spoke, the only sound between them the rhythmic scrape of Archer’s whetstone against the steel of her blade.

"I didn’t think we’d ever see the land come back from that," Darian finally said, breaking the silence. His eyes tracked the soft green glow of the Aetheric Currents as they intertwined with the trees, breathing new life into the once devastated landscape. "Branwen’s a miracle worker."

Archer nodded, glancing over at where Branwen was still kneeling with the other druids, her hands pressed against the soil, her brow furrowed in concentration. "She’s always had that connection," Archer said. "With the land, with the currents. It’s a part of her, more than I think even she realizes."

Darian let out a soft chuckle. "Seems like we’ve all got parts of ourselves we’re still figuring out. This… whole thing," he gestured vaguely with his hands, "changed us. Made us face things we weren’t ready for."

Archer paused in her work, turning to look at Darian. She could see the unspoken weight in his expression, the burden of choices made and paths followed. They had all been changed by what they had gone through, but for Darian, the lighthearted rogue, the cost seemed to be something deeper.

"Seraphina," Archer said quietly, watching as Darian’s expression faltered slightly at the mention of their fallen companion. "She mattered to you, didn’t she?"

Darian’s gaze dropped to the ground, his jaw tightening briefly before he nodded. "More than I let on," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "She had this… fire, you know? She didn’t take shit from anyone, but there was something underneath that. Something that made me want to—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard. "I don’t know. Be better, I guess."

Archer’s chest tightened. She had seen glimpses of the bond between Darian and Seraphina, but the war had left little room for personal connections to flourish. Still, it was clear now just how deeply her loss had affected him.

"I think she saw that in you," Archer said gently. "She didn’t have time for people who didn’t care. You may have acted like you didn’t, but she knew."

Darian laughed softly, though it was tinged with bitterness. "She always saw through me. Thought I was clever, sneaking around and doing my own thing. But Seraphina… she had this way of cutting through the bullshit. Made me wish I’d told her, you know? Before—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "But we never get the chance, do we?"

Archer was silent for a moment, letting his words settle between them. She had her own regrets—things unsaid, actions she might have taken differently. The weight of leadership often left little room for personal reflection, and she had carried that burden quietly, just as Darian had carried his.

"We don’t get to choose the timing," Archer said, her voice soft but steady. "But we can honor them by how we move forward."

Darian’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, the rogue’s usual mask of humor and charm dropped completely. He was just a man, grieving someone he had lost too soon. "I guess we keep moving, then," he said, his voice rough but resolute. "For her. For all of them."

Archer nodded, a quiet understanding passing between them. They sat in silence for a while longer, watching as the evening light deepened and the soft glow of the currents shimmered around the grove. There was still so much ahead of them—so many battles to fight, so many unknowns waiting on the horizon—but for now, they had this moment. A brief respite. A chance to breathe.

Darian glanced over at her again, this time a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "You know, for a leader who always keeps her cool, you’re not so bad at these heart-to-heart talks."

Archer raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a small smile. "Don’t get used to it."

Darian laughed, the sound lighter than it had been all night. "No promises."

The quiet between them settled into something more comfortable, the weight of the conversation giving way to a gentle peace. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of earth and new growth. The night felt less heavy than it had before, as though the land itself had begun to exhale after holding its breath for so long.

"Do you think it’s really over?" Darian asked after a long pause, his voice softer now. "The fighting, I mean. Do you think we’ll ever get to live in a world where we don’t have to keep looking over our shoulders?"

Archer didn’t answer right away. She stared out at the horizon, where the sky had begun to darken into deep hues of blue and purple, stars twinkling faintly overhead. It was a beautiful sight, and yet, the calmness of it felt fragile. She knew that peace, especially the kind they fought for, was always fleeting. There would always be new threats, new battles to fight.

"No," she said finally, her voice steady. "I don’t think it will ever be over. Not completely."

Darian frowned, but he didn’t seem surprised by her answer. "You’re probably right," he muttered, his tone heavy with reluctant acceptance. "There’s always something lurking around the corner, isn’t there?"

"Always," Archer agreed, her gaze distant. "But that doesn’t mean we stop fighting for it. Even if the peace doesn’t last, even if the world keeps testing us, we keep going. That’s all we can do."

Darian leaned back, resting his weight on his hands as he stared up at the sky. "You make it sound so simple."

"It’s not," Archer replied, shaking her head. "But we’ve made it this far. That has to count for something."

"It does," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I guess it does."

The two of them sat in silence for a while longer, watching as the stars began to grow brighter in the sky. There was something comforting about the stillness, a rare moment of quiet that felt like a gift after everything they had endured. Archer allowed herself to relax, just for a moment, letting the tension ease from her shoulders.

Eventually, Darian stood, brushing the dirt from his trousers. "I should probably check in with Selene," he said, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of concern. "She’s been keeping to herself since everything with Galen."

Archer nodded, rising to her feet as well. "She’ll need time," she said. "We all will."

Darian’s expression softened. "Yeah. But I think I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to go through it alone."

Archer offered him a faint smile. "She’s lucky to have you."

He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. "I wouldn’t go that far, but… thanks." He hesitated for a moment, as if wanting to say something more, but then he just nodded and turned to leave. "See you tomorrow, Archer."

"Good night, Darian," she replied, watching him disappear into the darkness before turning her attention back to the grove.

Branwen was still in the distance, her connection to the land as unwavering as ever. Archer could feel the power emanating from the druid, a steady, calming force that seemed to flow through her like the currents of the earth itself. It was no wonder Branwen had been able to help heal the land; she was as much a part of it as the trees and the soil beneath her feet.

With a deep breath, Archer walked toward her. She knew Branwen would be exhausted from the work she had been doing, but there was something she needed to say. Something that had been weighing on her mind since they had defeated Galen.

As she approached, Branwen glanced up, her eyes tired but filled with warmth. "Archer," she greeted, her voice soft. "You should be resting."

"I could say the same to you," Archer replied with a small smile. "But I know that’s not how it works for you, is it?"

Branwen gave a quiet laugh. "No, I suppose not. The land is still healing, and I need to be here to help guide it." She paused, her gaze drifting to the trees. "But it’s getting better. Slowly. We’re getting better."

Archer nodded, feeling the truth of those words in her heart. "I’ve been thinking," she began, her voice thoughtful. "About what happens next."

Branwen turned to look at her, her brow furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

"We’ve fought so hard to get to this point," Archer said, her expression serious. "But it’s not just about winning the battle. It’s about what we do after. How we move forward."

Branwen nodded, her eyes reflecting the same understanding. "It’s not easy, is it? Trying to find peace after so much war."

"No," Archer agreed. "But I think that’s what makes it worth fighting for. Even if we never truly get there… even if it’s always just out of reach."

The druid smiled, a soft, knowing smile. "You’ve always had that strength, Archer. The ability to keep going, even when the path is unclear."

Archer shook her head, her voice quiet. "I don’t know if it’s strength, or just stubbornness."

Branwen chuckled. "Perhaps a bit of both."

They shared a moment of quiet companionship, standing together in the shadow of the trees. There was still so much to do, so much to rebuild, but for the first time in a long time, Archer felt like they had a chance. A real chance to make things better.

And that, she knew, was something worth fighting for.

 

Healing the Land

The morning sun broke over the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the still-smoldering remnants of Eldergrove. Where once vibrant trees had stood tall and proud, much of the forest was now scarred by the devastation brought on by the battle. The air, still heavy with the scent of smoke and charred wood, carried a strange quiet, as if the land itself were holding its breath.

Branwen stood at the edge of a clearing, her hands clasped before her as she gazed out over the wounded landscape. Her connection to the natural world was a constant hum beneath her skin, and she could feel the pain of the land as if it were her own. The forest was alive, but it was suffering. The Aetheric Currents had been freed from Galen’s grip, but the damage remained, and it would take time—perhaps years—for the land to fully heal.

But Branwen had never been one to shy away from difficult work.

She knelt down, placing her palms flat against the scorched earth. Beneath the surface, she could still feel the pulse of life, faint but resilient. The trees, though many had been lost, would regrow. The soil, though it had been scorched by fire and dark magic, would renew itself. But it would take care, patience, and the guidance of those who understood the delicate balance between nature and magic.

Archer approached her from behind, her boots crunching softly on the brittle grass. She said nothing at first, simply standing beside Branwen as the two of them surveyed the scene before them. It was a sobering sight—a reminder of the cost of the battle they had fought. But it was also a symbol of resilience, of the land’s determination to survive despite everything.

"How bad is it?" Archer asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Branwen didn’t look up. Her voice was soft, almost reverent. "It’s bad. The magic that Galen used… it twisted the land in ways that are hard to undo. But it’s not impossible." She closed her eyes, drawing on the deep connection she had with the earth. "The forest will recover, but it will need help. And time."

Archer nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Is there anything we can do to help? Beyond just waiting?"

Branwen opened her eyes and stood, brushing dirt from her hands. "There are rituals, ancient ones, that can help speed the healing process. But they’re complex, and they require a deep understanding of the natural world. I’ll need to call on the remaining druids for their aid. This isn’t something I can do alone."

"We’ll help in any way we can," Archer said, her voice filled with quiet determination. "We owe it to Eldergrove, and to everyone who fought to protect it."

Branwen smiled faintly, though there was still a shadow of sorrow in her eyes. "Thank you. I know this isn’t the end of our journey, but healing the land is the first step. If the Aetheric Currents remain unstable, it could affect more than just Eldergrove. All of Valandor could suffer."

Archer turned her gaze back to the horizon, where the distant mountains loomed, their peaks shrouded in mist. "We’ll do whatever it takes."

They stood in silence for a few moments longer, the weight of their shared responsibility settling between them. Then, with a deep breath, Branwen straightened her posture and began to move. She gestured for Archer to follow as she made her way toward a small group of druids who had gathered near the edge of the forest.

The druids were a somber but resolute group, their faces marked by both exhaustion and quiet determination. Many of them had fought alongside Branwen during the battle, using their magic to protect the land from Galen’s corruption. Now, they were here to begin the long process of healing.

"We’ve already started preparing the first ritual," one of the elder druids said as Branwen approached. His voice was low, but there was a strength in it that spoke of years of experience. "The land is responding, but slowly. It will take time for the balance to be restored."

Branwen nodded in agreement. "I’ll lead the first ritual myself. We need to reestablish the connection between the land and the Aetheric Currents. Right now, the magic is still unsettled, but if we can guide it, we can help the forest heal faster."

The elder druid bowed his head respectfully. "We are at your service, Branwen."

With that, the group began their preparations in earnest. Branwen moved with purpose, directing the other druids as they gathered materials for the ritual. Sacred herbs, stones imbued with the power of the earth, and ancient talismans were arranged in a precise pattern on the ground. Each object held significance, a connection to the natural world that would help to focus their magic.

Archer watched as Branwen and the druids worked, her mind filled with both admiration and awe. She had always known that Branwen was powerful, but seeing her in her element like this—surrounded by the forces of nature, guiding the land with a gentle yet firm hand—was something else entirely.

Darian and Selene joined her after a time, both of them looking slightly worse for wear after the battle but determined to lend their support. Darian gave Archer a nod of greeting, his usual easy smile tempered by the seriousness of the situation.

"How’s Branwen holding up?" he asked, his gaze flicking to the druid as she worked.

"She’s doing what she does best," Archer replied. "But it’s going to take time. There’s a lot of damage to undo."

Selene crossed her arms, her expression contemplative as she watched the druids. "It’s hard to believe how much Galen managed to destroy in such a short time. It feels like the whole world shifted in the blink of an eye."

"That’s what dark magic does," Darian said, his voice grim. "It warps everything it touches, leaves scars that last long after the battle is over."

Archer nodded, her eyes never leaving Branwen. "But the land will heal. It always does."

As the ritual preparations neared completion, Branwen turned to face the group. Her expression was calm but focused, her eyes glowing faintly with the power of the natural world. "It’s time," she said. "We’re going to begin the ritual. This will be the first of many, but it will set the foundation for the healing process."

She gestured for Archer, Darian, and Selene to step closer. "I could use your help. The land responds to those who fought for it. Your presence here will strengthen the ritual, even if you don’t possess druidic magic."

Archer exchanged a glance with Darian and Selene, both of whom nodded in agreement. Together, they stepped forward, forming a circle around Branwen and the other druids. The air around them seemed to hum with energy, as if the very earth was holding its breath, waiting for the ritual to begin.

Branwen closed her eyes, raising her hands to the sky. The other druids followed suit, their voices rising in a low, melodic chant. The words were ancient, spoken in a language older than Valandor itself, a language of the earth and the currents. As the chant grew louder, the ground beneath them began to stir, the soil shifting and rippling as if in response to the magic being woven through it.

Archer could feel the power in the air, a steady, rhythmic pulse that seemed to flow through her veins. It wasn’t the same as the chaotic, destructive magic that had filled the air during their battle with Galen. This was something different—something pure, calming, and ancient.

The trees that had survived the battle seemed to respond to the ritual, their leaves rustling gently in the breeze, as if reaching out to touch the magic that was being woven through the land. The charred earth beneath them began to glow faintly, and slowly but surely, the first signs of new life appeared—small green shoots pushing their way up through the blackened soil.

Branwen’s voice rang out clearly above the others, her power flowing through the ritual like a river of light. She was the anchor, the guide, and the land responded to her as if she were a part of it.

As the ritual reached its peak, the earth itself seemed to sigh with relief. The air grew warmer, the scent of fresh soil and new growth filling the clearing. For the first time since the battle had ended, there was a sense of hope, a promise that the land would recover, that Valandor would heal.

When the ritual finally came to a close, the druids lowered their hands, their voices fading into the soft rustle of the trees. Branwen’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion, but there was a satisfied smile on her face. The ritual had worked.


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