The tour continues for nearly an hour.
She shows us ward lines carved into the root paths. Finger-width channels filled with a liquid amber substance that glows faintly. During a siege, these channels activate and project layered defensive barriers around the inner rings.
She presses her palm against one channel to demonstrate. The amber flares bright gold, and the air compresses suddenly as aninvisible wall rises from the groove and holds for several seconds before fading.
“Three layers,” she explains. “The outer shield absorbs impact. The middle redirects kinetic energy into the root system, where the Heartwood disperses it. The inner shield becomes lethal. Anything passing through it takes concentrated Bloom magic directly into the body.”
“What is the recharge time between strikes?”
She looks at me with open curiosity.
“You are the first person who has asked that.”
“It is the first question that matters.”
“Forty seconds,” she says. “We have reduced it from two minutes.”
Forty seconds is still a long time during a siege.
She knows that. I can see it in the way she watches me calculate the distance an attacker could cover during that window.
The armory is next. It occupies the base of a tower whose wood has hardened over centuries into something denser than stone.
Weapons line the walls. Blades glow faintly green. Staffs wrapped with living vines that pulse when touched. Bows strung with braided Root fiber.
Along the far wall heavier equipment rests in braces. Ballistae modified to fire concentrated Bloom charges. Shield generators large enough to anchor an entire defensive position.
Everything is spotless and organized.
The sort of armory maintained by someone who notices immediately if a single blade is misplaced.
Peeble finally breaks their unusual silence.
“I notice there are no beetle-sized weapons,” they say. “An oversight, I assume. Surely not the deliberate exclusion of your most valuable tactical asset.”
Thalia studies them calmly.
“We have scout drones made from living crystal. They are roughly your size.”
“Drones,” Peeble repeats in disbelief. “She called me a drone.”
They turn toward Elle.
“Did you hear that?”
“She said they were your size, Peeble. Not that you were one.”
“The implication was obvious. I am deeply wounded.”
Elle runs her hand along one of the vine-wrapped staffs. The weapon responds immediately. The vine tightens, and the glow brightens under her touch.
She withdraws her hand slowly.
“The weapons respond to marked individuals?”
“Yes,” Thalia confirms. “The stronger the connection to the Rootline, the more effective the weapon becomes.”
“Meaning Kaelren and I would hit harder than most.”
