“ Je suis prête ,” she whispered, the words half French, half a prayer older than any language. “I am ready.” The phrase slipped from her tongue, a quiet verification of her purpose, her resolve, her very being.
When the last echo faded, Markéta fell to her knees, tears freezing on her cheeks. She had not only cast a symphony; she had become part of its melody. The white light that remained on the altar’s surface reflected in her eyes, showing a future she could now see—one where the forest and its keepers lived in harmony, where every note of the wind was a reminder of the covenant they shared.