The breath of the jungle was full tonight.

Above, the canopy shimmered beneath the touch of the twin moons, their silver gleam filtered through leaves so ancient they whispered not in wind, but in memory. Flowers had begun to bloom in silence—pale petals opening like sighs—as the breath ritual deepened. The scent of pollened light drifted through the Circle, subtle as dream-smoke.

They were deep into the Spiral now, the sacred pattern of inhale and exhale that mirrored the cycles of stars, the tides of essence, the dance between form and formlessness. At the center stood Shai’Renn, motionless save for her chest’s quiet rise and fall. Even the insects obeyed the rhythm. Even the rivers had paused to listen.

The world is aligned. The stillness is pure. The breath flows.

She extended her awareness outward, beyond the limits of flesh—feeling, not seeing, the circular harmony around her. The air pulsed. Roots hummed. Souls opened like unfurling leaves. It was nearing the moment of spiraling inward, when the silence becomes speech.

And then—

A cough. No—an explosion.

Wet, sharp, irreverent.

The air cracked. Again—harsher, longer. A third time, followed by a muffled gasp and a stifled curse. The spell broke. The breath collapsed. Like a drum struck out of rhythm, the Circle faltered. Flowers shivered. A nearby vine recoiled.

What—?

Her eyes opened.

At the perimeter of the glade, entangled awkwardly in the roots of the Heart Tree, knelt a woman in foreign robes, bent double with a fit of coughing so violent it seemed to shake the very soil. Her shoulders trembled with each breath, eyes streaming not with tears of awe, but from what appeared to be a losing battle with the airborne jungle.

She had—somehow, impossibly—sat on one of the sacred roots, the kind that pulsed visibly with memory-light. Pollen clung to her skin in golden flecks. A half-crushed satchel of herbs lay spilled at her side. Her mouth opened again as if to speak—but no words came, only a wheezing rasp.

The Circle stared in silence. The ritual was broken.

Shai’Renn did not move immediately. She watched.

This is not illness. This is intrusion. No—accident? No. She has wandered in without rhythm. Without the breath. Without invitation. And yet... the Tree has not struck her.

Indeed, the Heart Tree remained still—its glow undimmed. The vines, though touched, had not recoiled in full. And the flowers nearest the woman had not sealed shut; in fact, they leaned toward her.

Why are they not rejecting her? They react to joy, sorrow, purity... not foolishness.

Shai’Renn stepped forward.

Her motion was like mist given shape—soundless, smooth. Her robes whispered around her ankles. She passed the inner ring, then the outer, her breath never faltering. The coughs had dwindled now into soft, apologetic wheezes. The woman, flushed and wide-eyed, tried to pull herself upright with all the grace of a rain-soaked bird.

Untrained. Uncentered. But not rejected.

She stood above the intruder, gaze steady. The woman looked up at her with eyes red from pollen and embarrassment. Her mouth opened again—perhaps to explain, perhaps to apologize.

Shai’Renn raised a hand.

Not to silence her, but to still the moment.

Then, quietly, with the breath that calms storms and parts illusions, she said:

"They’re amused."