The roots whispered.
At the deepest heart of the Grove Shrine, beneath chambers carved by the prayers of generations, Saintess Myria knelt in the Chamber of Echoes. She lowered herself onto cool moss, letting her knees sink until they found a natural hollow, as if the floor had learned her shape over countless vigils. Her hands rested lightly on the living carpet, fingertips brushing pearl-gray lichen that pulsed with faint bioluminescence. Each pulse matched the slow throb of sap moving inside the walls.
She inhaled. Rainwater, cedar dust, and a hint of crushed moon-petals drifted through hidden vents. Far above, storm-clouds pressed against the Grove's outer leaves, and the bark skin of the Shrine shivered whenever thunder rolled. The rain tapped a steady pattern—tap-tap-tap, pause, tap-tap—roughly the beat of a calm heartbeat. Myria tried to sync her breathing to it, but her own pulse refused to slow.
