Nethira pressed her palm flat against the trunk, letting her fingers spread where the ridges in the bark wound together like ancient rivers. The tree’s skin was rough but warm, and when she closed her eyes, she thought she could feel a pulse in it, like the slow beat of the earth itself.

  “Here I am,” she whispered. “Elder of branches, sown by wind, rooted in memory. May your roots remember the songs we sang.”

  She waited in silence. No reply came in words. Yet she felt something press back through the bark, the kind of push that told her the tree had heard. The scent of pine needles drifted around her, clean and sharp. Her breath steadied, though her heart did not.

  The tree had answered. But peace did not follow. Not this time.

  She pulled her hand away and stepped carefully over moss and root, her bare feet soft on the green floor of the grove. Birds sang overhead, and the light that fell through the leaves was gentle, but she could not shake the unease that coiled in her stomach. The dream lingered.

  When the ground sloped downward, she followed it, weaving between elder trunks until she reached the vast plane tree that marked the heart of the grove. Its canopy stretched wide, so wide she could not see its edge unless she craned her neck. The leaves whispered together constantly, voices speaking too low for her to understand. This was the dwelling of the Matron.

  Vines hung thick over the entrance, wet with dew. Nethira brushed them aside and ducked through.

  Inside, the chamber breathed with cool air. The walls were living wood, grown in curves, not carved. In the center, the Grove Matron knelt beside a shallow pool. The water reflected not the chamber, but a sky filled with stars that Nethira did not recognize. They glittered sharp and unfamiliar.

  The Matron’s skin was dark as old bark, and her hair fell long like willow strands. She did not turn as Nethira entered.

  “I saw it again,” Nethira said softly.

  The Matron nodded. “The burning place.”

  “Elzibar,” Nethira whispered. The name had come to her in the dream, though she had never been there. “A village. I tasted ash. I heard them scream.” She closed her eyes. “Then nothing.”

  Now the Matron turned. Her eyes were deep and still, but there was no surprise in them. “You are not the only one who dreams, child. The forest itself stirs. The roots are restless. Even the water carries strange echoes. The Dreaming World is troubled. That does not happen by chance.”

  Nethira sank to her knees. Her voice shook when she asked, “Why me? Why would the forest show me this?”

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  The Matron’s lips curved faintly, though the expression was more sorrow than comfort. “Because you listen. And because you were born when the moon brushed close to the Veil. Sometimes that is enough.”

  She rose slowly, her back creaking like old wood, and reached for a shelf woven into the wall. From it, she took a scroll wrapped in vines. The parchment crackled when she unrolled it.

  “There are stories,” the Matron said. “Older than names, older than men or dwarves. They say the world itself is dreamt. That long ago, dragons laid down in the bones of the earth and fell into slumber. What we call magic is their dreaming. Joy, grief, memory, fear. It shapes everything, even us.”

  Nethira shivered. “And if they stir?”

  The Matron’s hand pressed the scroll flat. “Then we must ask what has changed. Something stirs them now. You saw it in Elzibar’s fire.”

  The chamber grew still. Nethira thought of the river in her vision, of toys floating broken in the current, of voices calling names that turned to silence.

  At last, she asked, “What of the others? The dwarves? The humans?”

  The Matron studied her. “The dwarves we respect. They shape stone as we shape wood, steady but stubborn. They forget the sky. They live below it, not with it. As for the humans...” Her voice softened, uncertain. “They are young. Restless. But they feel the pull of change, even if they do not understand it. I believe that.”

  Nethira thought of the humans she had glimpsed before with her own eyes in these woods, travelers on the forest road. Their laughter had been loud, their steps clumsy, yet their eyes had carried a spark she did not forget.

  The Matron rolled the scroll closed. “I have sent word to the eastern groves. An expedition must go south. Small, unseen. They will follow the smoke, trace what leaks from the roots of the world. I meant to keep you here, where you are safe.”

  Nethira tilted her head, waiting.

  “But the forest is clear,” the Matron said. “It wants you to go.”

  The words settled like stones in Nethira’s chest. She pressed her hands into her lap. “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence again. Only the murmur of water at their feet.

  Nethira swallowed. “Who will lead?”

  The Matron’s gaze flickered, though only for an instant. “Her name is Yllen. Quiet, sharp-eyed, and a true servant of the forest. She’ll have another, a wanderer who has returned. She speaks little of his past. We only call him the Seeker, as he has chosen to be called. That is enough.”

  Nethira sensed something else hidden in the Matron’s tone, curiosity, or unease, but it passed too quickly to grasp.

  “She will guide you,” the Matron said. “And you will guide the forest’s will.”

  Nethira bowed her head. The weight pressed heavily on her shoulders, though she was not certain whether it was duty or fear.

  Her thoughts spiraled. Why had the trees chosen her? Was she strong enough? If the dreams were true, if villages burned and dragons stirred in their sleep, what could a single dryad do? She thought of her sisters, safe within the grove. She thought of the river in her vision, of hands reaching for help. And she wondered if perhaps no one was strong enough, but still, someone had to go.

  When she lifted her head, the Matron was already gazing back into the pool. The stars reflected there pulsed, like a warning.

  Outside, the plane tree whispered in the wind. The sound carried through the chamber, soft but insistent, like voices pressing at the edge of hearing.

  And deep beneath the soil, far beyond the roots of any tree, something vast turned in restless sleep.