Frost clings to the roots of ancient trees, and the air tastes of rain long fallen. Paths wind through forests that shift when unlooked at, and rivers murmur in tongues older than the stones they pass. In this land, magic does not announce itself — it waits, patient as winter, until the moment it chooses to rise. Those who travel here will find beauty and peril braided together, and the choices they make will echo far beyond the sound of their own footsteps.
The Scrollkeepers Archive
Chapter 19: The Æthelweave
The trees soared skyward, not in gentle increments, but with abrupt, breathtaking ascents that challenged the senses. Their trunks swelled from merely vast to truly monumental, bark forming plates as broad as barn doors, whilst roots arched from the earth like the ribbed vaults of ancient cathedrals.