God’s Tree

White-gold light unraveled around them like smoke, parting the veil between worlds. When the glow faded and the spell ended, Argolaith stood on firm ground—but what lay before him made his breath catch.

The Grand Magic Academy.

The outer gates rose before him—towering spires of obsidian-touched ivory, inlaid with ancient runes that shimmered like stars. The massive arch above them bore no words, only a singular crest: a ring of open eyes surrounding a flame burning upside down.

But when he turned to look behind him—

He froze.

There was no ground.

No road.

No mountains.

Just sky. Infinite and pale. The horizon curved, as though the very realm were folded inward upon itself. He couldn't even see the world of Morgoth anymore.

Only the floating academy, hanging in space like a divine thought.

"Where… are we?"

Veylan stepped up beside him, hands clasped behind his back.

"This is a second realm," he said calmly. "It exists alongside Morgoth, but not within it. A demi-dimension crafted by over two hundred of the strongest mages in recorded history." He paused. "And two gods helped, too."

Argolaith blinked. "Casual."

Veylan shrugged. "We try."

The gates began to open with a deep, sonorous hum. Runes spiraled outward, making space not just for bodies—but for presence.

"Come on," Veylan said. "We'll head to the central compound. The elders will want to see you—but not yet. You'll be… processed first."

The walk through the academy was surreal.

Floating walkways arched over gardens of spell-stabilized mist. Towers moved—not by stairs, but on rings of gravity that rotated beneath them. Creatures Argolaith had only read about whispered through courtyards, bound in service to higher magic.

Everything glowed here—not unnaturally, but as though the place itself remembered its creation and had never stopped celebrating it.

A pair of students in sleek navy robes passed them.

Both were young—perhaps a few years older than Argolaith—and their chatter stopped immediately when they saw Veylan. They halted, turned, and gave short, formal bows.

Argolaith watched with a raised brow.

"They bowed to you."

"Of course," Veylan said without stopping. "It's proper to show respect to those stronger than you."

Argolaith tilted his head slightly.

Then smirked.

"Then when will you bow to me?"

They kept walking.

But behind them, both students froze.

Their faces turned pale.

One whispered to the other:

"Did that kid just—?"

"Is he even twenty? He talked back to Instructor Veylan?"

"Isn't he one of the strictest instructors on the eastern circuit?"

Their shocked whispers faded into the background as Veylan finally replied, voice dry but unmistakably amused:

"Maybe when you learn your fourth spell."

Argolaith grinned. "So… soon, then."

They walked on.

The central towers loomed ahead now, where the halls of learning gave way to the arcane sanctums, elder spires, and sealed libraries.

The Round Table of the academy's leadership awaited somewhere beyond.

But not today.

Today, Argolaith had only just entered.

And already…

The whispers had begun.

The hallway leading to the Elders' Round Table was quiet.

Too quiet.

No enchantments hummed. No runes glowed. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Massive double doors loomed at the end of the corridor—black stone inlaid with starlight-threaded silver, shaped into a spiral of thirteen crests.

Argolaith stopped just short of them, gaze resting on the seal.

"What do I have to do in there?" he asked.

Veylan adjusted his cloak, his tone even but pointed.

"Don't be cocky. Don't be arrogant. These are the most powerful known mages on Morgoth—some of them are older than empires that have stood for thousands of years." He looked Argolaith in the eyes. "They'll ask about your magic, and the names of the five trees that awakened it. It determines which division your education begins in."

Argolaith tilted his head slightly. "But I don't have five trees."

Veylan's brow twitched. "I know."

Argolaith turned to the doors again, then murmured:

"I only have one. The Galaxy Maker."

That name alone pulled weight from the walls.

"It wasn't just a tree. It created realms. Held stars in place. A living anchor for an entire dimension."

Veylan gave a slow nod, folding his arms.

"And it still gave you its lifeblood."

Argolaith nodded. "Because it chose me."

There was a moment of silence.

Then Veylan asked, "What's your magic even called?"

Argolaith blinked.

"I haven't named it yet."

"What's it for?"

He thought about that for a long moment.

Finally, he said:

"It makes things."

"What kind of things?"

"Things that shouldn't exist." He raised a hand and clenched it. "I can create that cube—matter from nowhere. I can focus mana into my eyes and see through the fabric of the world. Spirits, hidden spells, things that walk unseen…"

Veylan watched him silently.

**"…and the spell I used to test its destructive potential—I'm naming it Starborn."

The instructor let out a short breath and offered a faint, crooked smile.

"That's a good name. Let's just hope you don't have to cast it again for a while."

He turned to the doors.

"It's time."

The doors opened on their own—slow and silent.

Inside was a circular chamber shaped like a star-forged amphitheater, with walls of glimmering crystal and a sky full of constellations embedded overhead. The floor bore a single sigil made of thirteen interwoven paths, leading to the seats of the Elders of the Academy.

They sat in silence.

All thirteen.

Each one dressed in long robes that shimmered like the stars above—robes laced with magic older than most languages. Each elder bore a different crest over their chest, denoting the domain they ruled:

Alchemy. Summoning. Elementalism. Astral Theory. Combat Arts. Sealing. Bloodwork. Timecraft. Rune Weaving. Dreamlogic. Transformation. Dimensions. Voidbinding.

At first, no one spoke.

Then an elder with pale gold skin and a Timecraft crest raised a brow.

"Veylan. You entered without announcement."

Another, with robes flickering like the moon, leaned forward. "And with a child that isn't a student."

A third—a woman with silver-threaded hair and the Transformation crest—narrowed her eyes. "Explain yourself."

Veylan didn't flinch.

"This is Argolaith."

A beat.

Then—

Murmurs.

A ripple of conversation spread through the circle like disturbed water.

"Already?"

"Has it been a year?"

"Time flies when you're a few thousand years old…"

"He's younger than I expected."

"Didn't he—wait, wasn't he supposed to arrive next cycle?"

Veylan held up a hand, voice calm but firm.

"I'm the one who made the call."

The murmurs quieted.

"I advanced his admission a year early."

"Why?" asked the elder of Rune Weaving, her tone cautious.

Veylan looked straight at her.

"Because if we don't train him now, he might accidentally flatten an empire while testing his magic."

Silence.

Utter silence.

No scoffs. No laughter.

Because each of the thirteen knew: Veylan didn't exaggerate.

Ever.

Their gazes turned slowly toward Argolaith.

Measuring. Weighing. Disbelieving.

And yet… not dismissing.

Because some part of them could already feel it.