God’s Tree

He stood slowly.

His reflection stood with him.

Argolaith looked at the tree—not down, not up, but eye to eye, as if it were a person standing across from him.

"I won't give you a memory," he said aloud.

The tree didn't respond, but the mirrored ground shimmered more brightly.

"I'll give you something better."

He stepped toward the pedestal.

"Not loss. Not absence. But presence."

He raised a hand above the bowl and closed his eyes. Drawing in a deep breath, Argolaith focused—not on one moment, but on many.

He thought of Seminah, quiet and cold in the winter months.

He thought of Athos's quiet voice reading to him from brittle old pages.

He thought of the first time Kaelred called him a friend—and meant it.

He thought of Malakar's slow shift from enemy to teacher.

He thought of Thae'Zirak, immense and terrifying, folding his wings with childlike pride when praised.

He opened his mind fully.

Not to forget. Not to erase.

But to share.

"Here," he whispered, placing his hand gently over the bowl. "Take them. Not to keep, but to know. These are mine—but you can see."

Light flared from his palm.

Not a violent burst—but a warm, steady glow, like the sunrise over mountains he hadn't yet climbed.

The obsidian bowl filled—not with liquid, not with memory—but with light. Threads of golden energy spun within it, dancing like strands of soul.

The tree responded.

Its branches lifted slightly. The shimmer in its bark brightened. The mirrored ground pulsed once, twice, then went still.

And then—the reflection vanished.

Argolaith stood alone before the tree.

The bowl faded away.

The pedestal sank.

And a single whisper passed through the air, soft as leaf-fall:

"You gave what could not be taken."

"You are ready."

The third tree shivered once.

Its roots flexed. Its leaves curled inward.

And at its base, a small node of light appeared—lifeblood, nestled where the trunk met the mirrored ground. It glowed faintly, waiting.

But Argolaith did not move to take it.

Not yet.

He stared at it with calm eyes and a slow breath.

"I will," he said quietly. "Soon."

The tree said nothing. But its presence wrapped around him in acknowledgment.

This was not a race.

Not a conquest.

It was a conversation.

And Argolaith had just spoken in a language the tree had not heard in a very long time.

The lifeblood pulsed softly at the base of the small, pale tree, glowing like a captured star nestled between its roots. The air was quiet now—no whispers, no illusions, no tests. Only stillness.

Argolaith stood before it, calm, thoughtful, eyes reflecting the silver-green veins glowing faintly within the bark.

He placed a hand on the trunk. It was smooth and cool to the touch, like carved stone wrapped in living light.

"…You're different from the others," he murmured.

The tree responded—not in spoken words, but in understanding.

"You see me."

Argolaith smiled faintly. "I do."

He let the silence stretch for a moment, then asked, "Do you have a name?"

A breeze stirred the leaves—though there was no wind in this strange realm.

"I was once called Lirael."

The name rang like music in the back of his mind. Ancient. Gentle. Rooted in something older than speech itself.

"I am the Tree of Growth. I do not shape strength through struggle. I nurture it through resilience."

Argolaith tilted his head. "Growth through resilience… like how I've survived. How I've learned. Without ever being taught."

"Exactly." The voice of the tree was soft, but layered. Not just female or male, but whole. Like it spoke through seasons and soil.

He rested his hand more firmly on the bark. "How long have you been here?"

"Before your bloodline. Before the nations. Before the gods gave us their favor."

A pause.

"I was one of the first five to awaken when the divine blood struck the soil."

Millions of years.

And yet, it stood here—smaller than the others, almost forgotten. But no less powerful.

"You're quiet," Argolaith said. "Why?"

"Because growth is not loud."

"It is patient. It is persistent. And it is almost always unseen."

He didn't respond to that. He didn't need to. The words spoke to something in him that hadn't been fully realized until now.

Argolaith sat before the tree for a while, cross-legged on the mirrored ground. They spoke—not always with words, but through thought, emotion, shared memory.

He told Lirael of his life. His solitude. His cabin near the Forsaken Forest. Athos. Kaelred. Malakar. Thae'Zirak.

And the tree listened, not judging, not measuring. Just receiving.

"You are not driven by power," the tree finally said. "But by the fear of not having enough to protect."

"That's true," Argolaith said softly.

"Then let my blood give you what strength alone cannot."

Argolaith stood again and reached into his belt pouch. From within, he drew a thin silver needle, engraved with a coiled vine along the handle. He had cleaned it days ago, knowing the time was coming.

With slow care, he knelt at the base of the tree.

The glowing node of lifeblood pulsed once as he approached—not in resistance, but in welcome.

He slid the needle gently into the bark, right where the roots joined the trunk. A single drop emerged—shimmering silver-green, thicker than water, lighter than oil. It hovered in the air for a moment before he guided it into a rune-etched vial he had prepared for this purpose.

The moment the drop settled into the vial, it swirled once and began to glow.

Not brightly.

But steadily.

Like a heartbeat.

He sealed the vial with a thin cork bound in rune-thread and held it for a long breath.

Then—without a word—he placed it gently into his storage ring.

"I won't forget you," he said to the tree.

The leaves shimmered.

"Nor I, you."

Argolaith turned and began to walk away. The mirrored realm rippled with each step, growing softer, dimmer. The weapons and plants behind him had vanished. The realm had seen his heart and no longer needed illusions.

As he crossed the invisible boundary that had once been the edge of the trial, the voice echoed one last time:

"Grow, Argolaith.

Not into what they expect.

But into what the world needs."

And then—

He stepped through the mist.

And the realm faded behind him.