As the team followed Davrin into the heart of the city, the wonder of Virehn only deepened—but this time, it felt more lived-in than legendary. Towering trees stretched skyward, their ancient trunks supporting entire neighborhoods seamlessly woven into their wood. Ribbons of moss glowed faintly in the twin sunlight, threading like bioluminescent veins up through the canopy.

The air pulsed with activity—not the rehearsed grace of a fantasy postcard, but the rhythm of a working city. Elarin in sleek woven garments strolled past in casual conversation, some in work jumpsuits smeared with sap-resin or chalk dust, others tapping away at wrist-bound interfaces as they weaved between moss-covered vendor stalls. Floating carts buzzed past, delivering parcels and fresh produce in neat packages wrapped in transparent fungal film.

Above them, a team of Elarin workers stood on a suspended platform beside one of the side spires—not hammering or welding, but guiding. Each wore lightweight harnesses and used slender rods that hummed faintly with harmonic energy, directing the gentle curvature of living wood. The tree responded slowly, deliberately—roots weaving upward to mend the damaged skywalk, bark reshaping under their touch like wet clay guided by will and intention. This was construction by cooperation, not conquest.

Above it all, strange birds flitted between branches—six-winged things with tails like inkbrushes, their bodies shimmering in hues that seemed to shift with every movement. Their cries weren't chirps or caws, but harmonic trills, as if the forest itself were singing in alien chords.

Here, the city wasn't just beautiful—it was functional. Alive, yes, but also very much awake. And Andersson could feel it—Virehn wasn't a relic. It was thriving.

Reece, walking beside Andersson, turned in a slow circle, eyes wide. He let out a low whistle before shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask—how the hell do you grow buildings?"

Davrin chuckled softly, glancing over his shoulder as they stepped onto a wide avenue lit by vines that glowed in rhythmic pulses. "We don't 'grow' them in the way you imagine," he said, his voice threaded with patient amusement. "We work with the trees, rather than against them. The structures you see aren't forced onto the forest—they're shaped in harmony with it."

He paused beside a massive tree whose bark had gently folded to cradle a spiraling tower of walkways and terraces. "We call it resonant shaping. The trees respond to presence, to memory, even to need. They listen. If we ask gently, they answer."

Hale arched a brow, watching the interplay of vines along a nearby archway. "So your buildings are alive?"

Davrin nodded. "Alive, yes—and aware, in a way. But we don't build wherever we choose. We build only where Vhenasul allows it. She decides where the forest will shape itself. We do not force her hand—we only follow her guidance."

Andersson reached out, brushing his fingers along a curved railing that felt smoother than stone, yet warm with a subtle pulse, like a heartbeat buried in wood. "And if she says no?"

Davrin offered a faint, enigmatic smile. "Then we do not ask again."

Hale crossed her arms, brows drawing together as she studied the organic sprawl of Virehn. "Okay, but I have to ask—how do you manage infrastructure? Schools, hospitals, law enforcement? Overcrowding? Surely you need to have some say in how the city grows."

Davrin's expression warmed—not dismissive, but clearly amused by the question. "Of course. Harmony is not the absence of structure—it's the cooperation of it. We plan, we design, we govern. The difference is, we don't impose. We collaborate."

He gestured to a gently spiraling tower nestled into the crook of an enormous root system, where soft lights flickered through semi-transparent walls. "That's a medical hall. Its layout was drafted by our architects—people trained in science, logistics, and health. But once we know what's needed, we present it to the forest. We request space, not demand it."

Hale blinked. "You… negotiate with your trees?"

"More like… we align with them," Davrin replied. "Vhenasul responds when intent and need are balanced. When a request lacks purpose, nothing grows. But when need is sincere—urgent, just, compassionate—the forest makes space. In its time. On its terms."

Reece gave a skeptical squint. "And what if you need something fast? Like emergency services?"

Davrin nodded toward a cluster of glowing platforms drifting gently above the ground. "We maintain rapid-response gliders shaped from bark-silk and bound energy—those can reach any point in the city within moments. And yes, we have guard posts. Judicial circles. Even zoning councils. It's not magic. It's simply… slow wisdom, paired with preparation."

Andersson tilted his head. "But what about population growth? Expansion?"

Davrin's tone grew thoughtful. "We guide growth through stewardship, not scale. When the city begins to reach its limits, we extend new roots—like a tree seeking balance, not dominance. New settlements, new rootways, all connected. Each one allowed by Vhenasul, and shaped only with her blessing."

He looked back at them, eyes calm and clear. "We do not build for ambition. We build for belonging."

Andersson let the words settle, his gaze drifting to a nearby mural carved into the trunk of a tree—an ancient depiction of a figure standing with arms outstretched toward an enormous root system.

The patterns weren't random. They were echoes—of reverence, of history, of something older than memory.

As Davrin's words settled, a flicker of movement caught Andersson's eye.

A young Elarin girl—no more than six, with copper-toned skin and delicate silver markings spiraling down her cheeks—had broken away from a cluster of families standing beneath one of the arched rootways nearby. Gasps rippled through the crowd as her parents reached to stop her, but she was already moving, small feet silent against the moss-covered path.

She ran straight to Andersson and came to a sudden halt just in front of him, her wide eyes searching his face with open wonder. Then, without hesitation, she extended her hand.

Andersson froze for a heartbeat. Then instinct took over. He crouched slightly, meeting her gaze, and reached out. Their fingertips touched—lightly, reverently.

The girl's expression lit up like sunrise. She turned and sprinted back to her parents, who gathered her close, their faces a mix of awe and emotion. A low murmur spread among the surrounding Elarin—soft gasps, whispered prayers, the sound of wonder turned outward.

Some covered their hearts. A few knelt. To them, something sacred had just happened.

Reece leaned toward Andersson, voice low. "Okay, that was either adorable… or mildly culty."

Davrin, still facing forward, smiled faintly. "To them, Captain… you've just given a blessing."

As they resumed walking, the path curved through a busy communal space—a wide terrace woven into the upper canopy, bustling with life. A pair of Elarin traders stood beneath a canopy of woven leaves, exchanging bundles of dried petals and vials of glowing sap with a handshake and a quiet word. Nearby, another group bartered using what looked like strands of biofiber woven into coded patterns—currency not of numbers, but of needs.

Hale slowed as she watched the interaction, brow furrowing.

Hale crossed her arms, eyes narrowing slightly. "Okay. But what about your economy? How do you fund all of this?"

Davrin didn't slow his pace, but his head tilted slightly as though amused by the framing. "We do not use wealth in the same way as the Stonari. We contribute. And Vhenasul provides in return."

A gust of wind stirred the canopy above, sending a drift of golden pollen spiraling through shafts of sunlight. Reece brushed a fleck off his sleeve, nose wrinkling.

"So wait—," he raised an eyebrow. "You mean… you don't make any money?"

Davrin nodded once. "We work by contributing. We are rewarded by Vhenasul."

Hale gave a dry laugh. "So you're saying you work for nothing and a giant tree provides you with everything you need?"

Andersson shot her a look—sharp enough to draw blood. "Hale…"

Davrin raised a hand, his tone as even as ever. "It is fine, Captain. I am not offended. It is a fair question."

He glanced at Hale, not with judgment, but understanding. "The Elarin denounced the ways of personal wealth long ago. A civilization born of slavery does not put value in material things. We work toward the betterment of our society—not for individual gain, but for collective growth."

Reece squinted at a passing sky-glider, its elegant frame trailing threads of light. "But how do you pay for all this advanced tech? Someone's gotta build that stuff, right?"

Davrin smiled, but there was a firmness beneath it now. "Who would we need to pay?"

Hale, not letting go, gestured around them. "Whoever makes it. Engineers, scientists, whoever designs those levitating display fields you've got floating around the markets."

Davrin turned toward her as they reached a crossing of archways, the light filtering through vines overhead like shifting gold. "There are more ways to pay than with coin. We trade goods, labor, service. And when necessary, we offer goodwill."

Hale blinked. "You based your entire society on goodwill?"

Davrin's smile deepened, just a trace. "No. We built it on trust. Goodwill is the interest it earns."

Hale shook her head slightly, not in disbelief, but in that stubborn, analytical way of hers. "I just don't see how that's enough to sustain a society. Goodwill doesn't keep hospitals running."

Reece glanced toward Hale, as if bracing for the fallout. Even Andersson's expression shifted—watchful. Then Davrin stopped walking.

Not abruptly—but with purpose.

He turned to face her fully, the soft light catching the lilac rings in his eyes, making them glow faintly.

"No," Davrin said, his voice smooth as still water. "But Vhenasul does."

"Compare us to the Carta." His voice was low, but firm. "Their entire structure is built on personal gain. On exploitation. On the hoarding of wealth at the expense of others. And what has it brought them?"

He lifted a hand, palm open.

"Destruction of their surroundings. Loss of life. Irreversible damage to communities, ecosystems, even cultures." He let that settle. "Is that functional? Is everyone cared for in that system?"

A beat of silence.

Reece let out a breath, smirking. "He's kind of got you there, Hale."

Andersson, deadpan as ever, added, "Done and done."

Hale didn't respond immediately. But her silence wasn't surrender—it was processing. And that, Davrin knew, was the beginning of understanding.

Andersson stepped beside Davrin as they continued toward the center of the city. "So Vhenasul… she's the core of your society?"

Davrin nodded slowly. "She is the core of the planet, Captain. But the Elarin are the only race on Thedas who have fully embraced that truth."

Reece muttered under his breath, "Well, that explains a lot."

Davrin's expression shifted. The quiet authority he carried remained, but there was something else now—reverence, a deep and abiding respect. He gestured for them to follow as he led them toward a vast, open courtyard, where the towering silhouette of an ancient tree loomed ahead.

Andersson tilted his head slightly. "How do you communicate with her? I'm guessing you can't just walk up and start a conversation."

Davrin almost chuckled—a rare crack in his composed demeanor. "You are correct, Captain. Vhenasul speaks through a single individual—the Seer. They are her emissary, our spiritual guide. It is through them that we hear her will, her visions, her needs."

Hale frowned, her arms folding tighter. "One person? That sounds... dangerous. Open to interpretation. What's to stop them from twisting her message? Corruption happens."

Davrin's smile faded into something more solemn. "If the Seer's words did not reflect Vhenasul's true will, she would not allow their guidance to shape our course. The forest would simply refuse to respond."

He let that truth hang between them, as certain and immutable as gravity.

Hale shook her head, incredulous. "But this continent is massive. You're saying everything that happens across Brelan has to go through one person?"

Davrin nodded, but not with defensiveness—only understanding. "The Seer does not govern logistics or daily life. Their role isn't to command—it's to harmonize. They are not a ruler, but a conduit. Decisions about trade, infrastructure, and governance are handled by regional councils, each with autonomy."

He stepped lightly around a spiraling root as they walked, then added, "But all of them listen to the Seer when it comes to matters of Vhenasul's will. When the forest speaks—when the land shifts or the energy beneath us stirs—it is through the Seer that we understand what must change, what must be protected, or sometimes… what must be stopped."

Reece, squinting upward at a flock of those six-winged birds, muttered, "So… kind of like a planetary weather report, but with prophecy."

Davrin allowed a small smile. "A poetic way to phrase it. The Seer does not micromanage. But when Vhenasul speaks, we listen."

Andersson glanced toward the enormous canopy looming ahead. "And if the Seer ever lost that connection?"

Hale's fingers tapped restlessly against her belt clasp. Reece said nothing, watching a small beetle-like creature with iridescent legs crawl across a vine overhead.

The forest didn't feel still—it felt like it was listening.

Davrin's tone became quietly firm. "Then they would no longer be the Seer."

"Vhenasul is more than the heart of Virehn," he said as they walked, his voice softer now, carrying the weight of something sacred. "She has stood since before the first Elarin climbed their first tree, before the Stonari carved their first stone, before the first Qunari set foot upon this land. We did not build around her—she shaped this place long before we existed."

The layout of Virehn became clearer as they moved. The city wasn't a web of random beauty—it spiraled outward in perfect symmetry, each ring of structures and walkways leading, inevitably, to the center.

To her.

The closer they drew, the more apparent it became that the city had grown around Vhenasul. Unlike the other trees, whose trunks cradled homes and bridges, Vhenasul was untouched. No buildings or platforms clung to her bark. The Elarin had not used her—they had honored her. The message was unmistakable: Vhenasul was not a part of their city.

She was the city.

And she was colossal.

As they stepped through the last of the arching root-bridges and into the clearing at her base, Andersson's breath caught. His feet slowed. His thoughts quieted.

There was nothing on Earth that could compare.

Vhenasul's trunk was the size of a starship hangar, her bark dark and gnarled, streaked with intricate veins of silver and gold that pulsed faintly—like something alive. Her branches, thick as city streets, stretched impossibly high, her canopy disappearing into a vault of green-lit mist. Leaves, deep emerald and luminous in the shifting light, rustled in a wind that didn't seem to reach them—as if she moved of her own accord.

At her base, a wide clearing spread out in all directions. No buildings. No structures. Only people. Dozens of Elarin stood at the perimeter—some in quiet conversation, others kneeling in still reverence. A few had their palms pressed to her bark, eyes closed, lips moving in silent communion. Others simply watched her, their expressions filled with something Andersson couldn't quite name—devotion, perhaps. Or memory.

As the team stepped fully into the clearing, the ground beneath their boots changed.

The rich soil and forest floor gave way to a vast, living network of woven vines—not tangled, but shaped, stretched outward like veins from a heart. They fed into the rest of the city like a circulatory system—alive, connected, pulsing.

Every step Andersson took, he felt it—not a tremor, not pressure—but presence. A low thrum that traveled through the vines, into the trunks, and up into Vhenasul herself.

He exhaled slowly.

It wasn't magic.

It was memory.

It was life.