God’s Tree

The forest was quiet after the storm of spirit. No wind. No whisper. Only the steady pulse of something far away, threading itself into Argolaith's senses like a subtle rhythm beneath his breath.

He stood at the edge of the trial grove, the awakened seed cradled in his palm. Its glow had dimmed now, but it was still warm—warm in a way that didn't burn but remembered. The stone altar behind him no longer pulsed. The grove had gone still, satisfied, like a great beast that had judged and found him worthy.

And yet…

The call of the third tree wasn't what he expected.

Argolaith's brows furrowed, his blue eyes scanning the distant trees ahead as if he could see through them.

"It's calling," he said softly. "But it feels… wrong."

Kaelred looked up from sharpening his dagger. "Wrong how? Stronger?"

Argolaith shook his head slowly. "No. Smaller."

That word lingered.

They left the grove shortly after, heading west through forest paths that now responded to Argolaith's steps with subtle shifts—roots pulling away from his boots, leaves tilting to allow faint shafts of light to mark his way.

But the sense he followed, the call of the third tree, was different from the others.

The first tree had pulled like a chain on the soul. The second had thundered like a storm on the horizon.

But this one?

It flickered.

Like a candle far away.

He reached inward, brushing his focus against the now-familiar pull of lifeblood. It responded faintly, not with strength—but with urgency.

"It's a few hundred miles away," he said after several miles of silence. "Southwest. But it's not… stable."

Malakar, gliding silently across the forest floor, tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

Argolaith's expression was strained. "It's there. I can feel it. But it's small. Diminished. Almost as if it's fading."

Thae'Zirak stirred behind him, wings folding tight. "The trees are not all equal in size. Nor in purpose. One might have roots that span a continent. Another, the size of a single field—but hold just as much truth."

"Small tree, big trial," Kaelred muttered. "That sounds about right."

Argolaith stopped walking and turned to face them. "It's not just the tree. There are two more trials."

Kaelred looked up. "Two?"

He nodded. "I don't know what they are. But the call isn't direct. It's being filtered through something. I can feel… obstacles. One close, one further. Before I reach the tree, I'll have to pass through them."

Malakar's voice was soft but certain. "Then the forest has judged you again. Not unworthy. But… not yet whole."

Argolaith closed his eyes. He felt the two presences—one waiting at the edge of shadow, the other buried beneath soil, deep and slow and heavy.

He opened his eyes again. "We're not done here."

The forest had shifted again. It no longer bent so willingly around them. The paths that had once opened now seemed to watch, hesitant. Not resisting, not threatening—but waiting to see if Argolaith would falter.

He didn't.

They moved swiftly, cutting through undergrowth and passing through strange, moss-veiled ruins half-buried in the roots of forgotten trees. Birds watched from the branches—silent, intelligent, unblinking.

Even the wind had a rhythm now. A chant beneath its breath, too low to understand.

Kaelred broke the quiet after several miles. "So if the tree is smaller, does that mean the lifeblood is weaker?"

Argolaith shook his head. "No. The size of the tree doesn't matter. It's what it represents. Each tree gives a different piece of the same soul."

Malakar looked at him with a strange expression. "You're beginning to understand them."

"I have to," Argolaith replied. "The trees aren't just keys. They're mirrors. Each one shows me a different part of myself."

Thae'Zirak gave a soft huff of smoke. "And not all mirrors show something beautiful."

That night, they camped beneath a wide tree with black bark and leaves that glittered faintly under the moonlight. Argolaith didn't sleep. He sat cross-legged beside the fire, staring into the embers with his sword across his knees.

He felt the first trial—passed.

The second—earned.

The third—calling.

But it was the two shadows ahead that lingered in his mind. The trials between him and the tree.

The first felt near. Like something he might pass by sunrise if he kept walking.

The second… was deeper. Older. Hidden in the folds of the earth.

He didn't fear them. But he respected them.

Kaelred rolled over in his bedroll and muttered, half-asleep, "What are you thinking about?"

Argolaith stared into the flame. "The tree is waiting. But something's watching it too."

The path narrowed again.

Dawn had not yet broken. The moon hovered just above the treetops, casting a soft silver light over the forest floor. Fog coiled between the roots like slow-moving breath, and every step Argolaith took brought the sense of something approaching.

Not a threat—

But a test.

They had traveled for another few hours after waking, guided by the diminishing pulse of the third tree, weaving between bent trunks and hollow stumps that once might have housed creatures long gone.

Then, as the forest grew dense with vines and moss-laced stone, they saw it.

A grove of mushrooms, some glowing faintly green and others a dull crimson, arranged in perfect concentric circles. In the center of those rings was a flat table of polished bone-white stone, with small grooves etched into its surface—grooves that formed diagrams. Alchemical diagrams.

The moment Argolaith stepped inside the ring, a shimmer passed through the air.

The wind stopped.

The light dimmed.

And a presence whispered through the leaves.

"The body is forged through trial.

The mind, through memory.

But the spirit requires cultivation."

Malakar's head tilted. "The second trial."

Kaelred blinked. "You're kidding. We just did one."

Thae'Zirak remained silent, but his wings folded inward. The old magic here commanded respect.

Argolaith approached the stone table.

On it now sat a collection of strange ingredients—some he recognized, most he didn't. Fungal spores, blackroot threads, powdered drake scale, dried leaves pulsing faintly with internal heat, and a handful of raw crystalline marrow extracted from beasts unknown.

Set beside them was a set of tools: a pestle and mortar, a fire basin, grinding stones, a thin blade for shaving roots, and a sealed clay cauldron etched with alchemical runes.

A voice, softer than before, echoed once more—

"To reach the tree, you must prove you can prepare for it."

"Forge life from life."

"No force of arms can replace the mastery of healing and growth."

Argolaith stepped forward and laid his hand on the cold stone. The ingredients shimmered for a moment and rearranged themselves slightly—dividing into groups of unknown logic.

His body tensed, but his mind—calm.

This was not a battlefield.

This was a forge of creation.

A test of his understanding of the natural world—of plant, beast, and magic.

Kaelred remained outside the circle, arms folded. "I'd help, but I can't tell mushrooms apart from poisoned rocks."

Malakar's tone was low. "We are not permitted. This trial is his alone."

Argolaith exhaled and picked up the pestle.

The trial was not about memory—it was about instinct.

And he'd learned through experience, in forests, on frozen peaks, in blood-soaked ruins, how to balance raw power with patience.

He began with the root thread—blackroot. Brittle, bitter, and if crushed improperly, toxic. He softened it with drake marrow, mixing slowly, until the heat from the fire basin began to draw out its hidden potency.

The fire flared briefly as the ingredients reacted, turning the liquid a deep violet. He shifted gears, slicing leaf veins with the thin blade, extracting resin that smelled of burnt honey and ground ash.

Then, the spores. He added them slowly—letting them melt into the mixture as it bubbled in the cauldron.

The process took hours. The forest remained utterly silent.