The temple groaned behind them as they stepped out into the cold light of Morgoth's morning.
The once-still clearing around the broken obelisks now seemed to buzz faintly with new energy, the ancient wards no longer strong enough to mask the temple's presence. The land was shifting, waking in ways it hadn't for countless years.
Argolaith stood at the edge of the clearing, the small root fragment in his hand glowing steadily. It pulsed with a rhythm that thrummed up his arm and into his chest—a living guide, a heartbeat pointing toward something distant.
Toward Yuneith.
The true Yuneith.
The part that had been left behind when the Hand of Nelrith tore it from the world.
Kaelred pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "So, how exactly does that thing work?"
Argolaith watched the root carefully. "It's not showing me a clear path. More like… pulling me. Guiding me where it feels strongest."
