Foster knelt before the Mother Tree, closing his eyes and letting his breathing slow to a trickle. He plunged into a state of deep meditation, trying to synchronise his mind with that of the Mother Tree.
All around him, the city of Vollua was silent, as if frozen in anticipation of some miracle or tragedy. The remaining elves dared not intervene. Only the rustle of the wind in the branches of the plant dome disturbed the oppressive calm.
He could feel the wood pulsing beneath his palms on the ground. A slow, deep rhythm, that of an ancient force, incomprehensible to ordinary mortals. But for Foster, this beat was a language.
A silent exchange.
The Mother Tree didn't express her thoughts in words.
She projected sensations, images, fleeting impressions, like fragments of a truth that he had to assemble.
And the first thing he perceived was a stain.