Chapter 75: The Cenarion Ward

　The oppressive humidity of the Feralas jungle clung to Kaelen like a second skin. He had been traveling for days through the tangled undergrowth, his progress slow and deliberate. The cacophony of life was a constant, and the ever-present threat of predators kept his senses on a razor's edge. He was navigating by instinct, drawn toward a subtle shift in the air—a faint, clean scent of water and living stone that cut through the jungle's rot.

　　He pushed through a final curtain of giant, waxy leaves and stumbled into a clearing that was so starkly different it felt like stepping into another world. The air was cool and dry. The chaotic jungle growth gave way to a grove of ancient, impossibly tall trees with smooth, silver bark that seemed to absorb the dappled sunlight. The ground was covered in a soft, mossy carpet, and the only sounds were the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft plink of water dripping from stone. In the center of the grove stood a ring of menhirs—massive, standing stones covered in intricate, glowing green runes that pulsed with a soft, steady light. This was no natural formation; it was a place of power, deliberately shaped and guarded.

　　This was a Cenarion Ward, a sanctuary maintained by the druids of the Cenarion Circle. The chaotic energy of the jungle was held at bay here, replaced by a profound, palpable peace. The very air hummed with a restorative magic.

　　Kaelen stood at the edge of the clearing, hesitant to intrude. The contrast was so extreme it was disorienting. After the constant struggle for survival in the jungle, this place felt like a sanctuary carved out of a dream.

　　A figure emerged from behind the largest of the standing stones. It was a tauren, but unlike the warriors or shamans he had encountered. This one was older, his fur a soft grey, his massive horns carved with patterns of leaves and vines. He wore simple, undyed leathers and carried a staff of polished heartwood. His eyes, deep and brown, held a calm that was as solid as the stones around them. A druid of the Wild.

　　The druid did not seem surprised to see him. He approached slowly, his hooves making no sound on the moss.

　　"You have walked through the untamed heart," the druid said, his voice a low, gentle rumble that harmonized with the grove's quiet hum. "The jungle has tested you." It was not a question.

　　Kaelen gave a slow, respectful nod.

　　The druid gestured to the circle of stones. "This is a place of balance. The wild is not our enemy. It is our teacher. But even the most ardent student needs a quiet place to reflect." He looked at Kaelen with an appraising gaze. "You carry the green chaos with you. But you also carry a stillness. An unusual combination."

　　He walked to the center of the circle and placed a hand on one of the menhirs. The green runes flared brighter for a moment. "The world is out of balance. The Emerald Nightmare spreads its corruption. The machines of war scar the earth. We work to mend the tears, to remind the land of its true song." He turned his gaze back to Kaelen. "You are not a mender. You are a witness. Why do you seek out the wounds?"

　　Kaelen had no answer that could be spoken. He looked around the grove, feeling its restorative power seeping into his travel-weary bones. He then looked back the way he had come, toward the chaotic, dangerous, and vital jungle.

　　The druid watched him, his expression thoughtful. After a long silence, he spoke again, his voice softer. "Perhaps… to witness a wound is the first step toward understanding it. To see the imbalance is to acknowledge the need for balance." He pointed a thick finger toward a small, clear spring that bubbled up from between the roots of the great silver tree. "Drink. Rest. The Ward offers sanctuary to all who respect its peace. You are a part of the world's story, however strange your path may be. Even the witness must sometimes lay down his burden."

　　For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Kaelen allowed himself to truly rest. He drank from the spring—the water was cold and tasted of clean stone and living roots. He lay down on the soft moss, the gentle hum of the Ward a lullaby after the jungle's relentless scream. He was not safe, not in the grand scheme of things, but in this small, sacred space, he was granted a reprieve. It was a reminder that amidst the chaos and the blight, there were still places where healing was practiced, where the world's song was remembered and reinforced. His chronicle would not be one of unrelenting darkness. It would also include these oases of light, these quiet, stubborn refusals to let the world fall completely silent. He closed his eyes, and for a few precious hours, he simply slept, the Ward standing guard over him like a silent, stone sentinel.