Lysander remained kneeling beside the nascent Cenithia, his armored form still and radiating an almost unbearable sorrow. The air around him thrummed with a silent lament, and the petrified tree behind him seemed to weep shimmering tears of solidified grief.
Kaelen stepped forward cautiously, his gaze fixed on the sorrowful figure. "The legends… they spoke of their bond," he murmured, more to himself than to Lucian and Finley. "A siren of the sea and a guardian of the wood… their love was as deep as the ocean and as enduring as the ancient trees."
He turned to Lucian. "You spoke of a curse, a connection to the sea. Perhaps… perhaps an echo of the sea can reach him."
Lucian frowned, unsure. "An echo of the sea? We are deep within the forest."
"But you carry the Sky Stone," Finley interjected, his eyes widening with understanding. "The Griffin said it held the power to withstand the depths. Perhaps it also carries a resonance of the ocean's magic."
Kaelen nodded. "It's worth trying. The legends say the siren's voice was her greatest power, filled with the magic of the tides. Perhaps a song, a memory… something that evokes the sea…"
Lucian thought of Seraphina's warning, her voice tinged with sorrow and power. He closed his eyes, focusing on the memory of the distant crash of waves, the salty tang of the air he had only briefly experienced, the image of the Obsidian Tides swirling with ancient magic. He then began to speak, his voice low and hesitant at first, then gaining strength as he recalled Eldrin's description of the siren's beauty and power. He spoke of the deep, of the cold beauty of the underwater realm, of the magic that pulsed beneath the waves.
As Lucian spoke, a faint shimmer of blue light emanated from the Sky Stone he held concealed beneath his tunic. The mournful atmosphere in the clearing seemed to thicken, and Lysander's head slowly began to lift. His face, gaunt and etched with centuries of sorrow, was still shadowed by his helm, but a flicker of something – curiosity, perhaps a stirring of memory – seemed to pierce through his grief.
Encouraged, Finley joined in, recalling snippets of sea shanties and tales of ocean voyages from his dusty tomes. His voice was less melodic than Lucian's, but his earnestness and the genuine wonder in his words seemed to add another layer to the "echo of the sea" they were creating.
The petrified tree behind Lysander seemed to tremble slightly, and the droplets of solidified grief upon its branches shimmered as if catching a distant light. The bud of the Cenithia pulsed with a brighter glow. It seemed their desperate attempt to reach the grieving guardian was having an effect.As Lucian and Finley continued their impromptu invocation of the sea – Lucian's descriptions of the deep mingling with Finley's hesitant sea shanties – the subtle signs of Lysander's awareness intensified. His armored fingers, resting on the ground beside the nascent Cenithia, twitched. The faint blue light emanating from the Sky Stone pulsed rhythmically, mirroring the ebb and flow of their words.
The air in the clearing grew heavy, not just with sorrow, but with a sense of ancient longing. The illusory scent of saltwater became stronger, and the faint shimmer of water in their peripheral vision intensified, almost forming fleeting images of crashing waves.
Lysander's helmed head slowly turned, his gaze, though still obscured, now fixed in their direction. The silence that had enveloped him for centuries seemed to crack, replaced by a low, guttural sound – not a word, but a moan of profound sorrow, as if a wound long sealed had been abruptly reopened.
Kaelen, watching with bated breath, whispered, "He hears us… something resonates."
Encouraged by this reaction, Lucian shifted his focus, speaking now of loss and longing, emotions he knew all too well from his own cursed existence and his yearning for Julienne. He spoke of the crushing weight of isolation, the desperate hope for connection, the pain of a love that felt just out of reach. His voice, raw with genuine emotion, seemed to carry a different kind of magic, one born of shared suffering.
Finley, sensing the shift, spoke of the legends Kaelen had shared – the bond between the siren and the guardian, the tragedy that separated them, the enduring power of their love despite the centuries of loss. He spoke of Seraphina's sorrow, a "frozen heart" as the prophecy described, echoing the grief that seemed to consume Lysander.
As their voices intertwined, a visible tremor ran through Lysander's armored form. His grip on the ground tightened, and the mournful echoes that had permeated the forest earlier returned, this time tinged with a raw, almost unbearable pain. The petrified tree behind him wept more intensely, the solidified tears shimmering with an almost painful brilliance.
The bud of the Cenithia pulsed again, its astral light growing stronger, as if drawing energy from the raw emotion in the clearing. It was clear that their words were reaching Lysander, stirring something within his centuries-long grief. But whether that stirring would lead to understanding, acceptance, or further anguish remained to be seen.