God’s Tree

The guardian stood unmoving, framed by the mist and the broken silhouette of Yuneith's wounded roots.

Its hollow eyes glowed brighter now, threads of silver memory weaving from its body into the very ground beneath their feet. The air around it trembled—not with rage or hunger, but with the heavy weight of purpose.

Argolaith stepped forward, sword in hand, the root fragment at his hip burning hotter than ever before.

The guardian raised its hand once—palm outward, fingers splayed like the reaching branches of a dead tree.

A voice, deep and ancient, spoke—

Not through sound, but through the marrow of their bones.

"Only the Chosen may pass."

Kaelred's hand tightened around his daggers.

Malakar's robes stirred in the still air.

Thae'Zirak tensed, tail lashing the mist.

But the voice continued:

"Only the bearer of the scars of the sacred roots may fight.

Only the will forged by the five shall be tested."

The guardian's hollow eyes locked onto Argolaith alone.

The message was clear.

This fight was his. And his alone.

Argolaith exhaled slowly, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. He could feel the weight of the Rootheart pulsing through him, and the distant memories of the trees he had already touched flickered like tiny flames in the back of his mind.

He took one step forward.

The mist between them vanished with a hiss.

The guardian moved.

Faster than its size should have allowed.

It blurred across the stone, its arm extending like a sharpened branch, aiming straight for Argolaith's chest.

Argolaith barely twisted aside in time, feeling the air crack open where the blow passed. He countered immediately, bringing his blade down in a sharp arc toward the guardian's exposed side.

The guardian's body shifted—almost liquid—roots and bark bending away from the strike.

And it retaliated, sweeping one massive limb low across the ground like a reaping scythe.

Argolaith leapt high, spinning midair and coming down hard toward the guardian's shoulder.

The blade bit deep.

But instead of blood, memory spilled out—silver light splashing into the air like smoke.

The guardian staggered.

But did not fall.

The ground beneath Argolaith's feet twisted without warning.

Suddenly he stood not on stone—but on the streets of Seminah.

Broken. Empty. Burning.

Flames licked at the blackened ruins. Screams echoed in the distance.

A phantom world summoned from fear.

The guardian stood amidst it all, its form larger now, wreathed in mist and silver flame, its hollow face twisted by something almost like sorrow.

Argolaith gritted his teeth.

"This isn't real," he muttered.

He charged.

His sword flashed through the fire and smoke, striking the guardian's arm, severing a length of twisted root. The phantom streets cracked and split, revealing the true battlefield beneath.

The guardian roared—not in anger, but in a sound like a thousand weeping voices.

It struck back, lashing tendrils of silver memory at him, each one a grasping hand of the past.

Argolaith ducked, weaved, slashed.

One tendril caught his shoulder—

A burst of searing cold shot through his body, and for a moment he saw—

Kaelred falling to an unseen enemy, Malakar's bones turning to ash, Thae'Zirak's wings torn away.

Visions of failure.

Visions of weakness.

Argolaith roared back, slamming the point of his sword into the ground, sending a pulse of force outward. The visions shattered like glass.

Breathing hard, he rose again.

"I won't be broken," he growled.

The guardian surged forward for the final clash.

The air around them shimmered with memories—not just of Argolaith, but of the world itself. Fragmented trees, lost cities, forgotten hopes.

The guardian moved like a storm, every blow heavy with the sorrow of ages.

Argolaith's muscles burned, his mind screamed at him to falter, to retreat.

But he refused.

He found a rhythm.

Sidestep. Strike. Parry. Lunge.

He danced the line between exhaustion and victory, the blade in his hands an extension of his will alone.

And then—

An opening.

Just for a breath.

Argolaith pivoted low, sliding beneath the guardian's reaching arms, and drove his sword upward into the heart of its chest.

The blade pierced deep into the woven core.

The guardian froze.

The mist stilled.

The silver light pouring from its wounds dimmed, then shuddered—

—and began to flow into Argolaith.

Not as corruption.

But as recognition.

The guardian's voice, weak but clear, echoed once more:

"You carry their hopes."

"You are their root reborn."

And with a final shudder, the guardian's body crumbled—not into dust, but into glowing leaves that spiraled upward, vanishing into the broken sky.

The mist continued to thin as Argolaith stood in the silence left by the guardian's fall.

Silver leaves drifted lazily upward, vanishing one by one into the broken sky, leaving only the faint pulse of magic in their wake. The others—Kaelred, Malakar, and Thae'Zirak—stood a few paces behind him, watching with solemn eyes.

The Rootheart fragment at Argolaith's belt pulsed once, then dimmed, as if its duty had ended here.

Argolaith took a breath and began walking forward.

Each step felt heavier, not from exhaustion, but from the strange gravity of the place—the pull of something old and wounded and waiting.

The broken basin spread before him, its floor cracked and uneven, covered in patches of moss and crumbling roots.

And at the center of it—

He saw Yuneith.

Or at least, what it had once been.

But no longer just a fragment.

The small, broken stump had changed.

The closer Argolaith came, the more he could see the truth.

The once-charred roots had begun to knit together, weaving fresh tendrils of silver bark and deep green leaves. Tiny blossoms glowed at the tips of the branches, each one holding a spark of light so pure it hurt to look at for too long.

Where once there had been ruin, now there was resistance.

Yuneith hadn't given up.

It was growing again.

The shattered wound left by the Hand of Nelrith still scarred its lower trunk, a blackened brand at the base—but the tree had begun to rebuild itself, feeding off the echoes of its old sanctum, the lingering memory of what it had been.

Argolaith stood in awe.

The tree's presence filled the air, not with words or song, but with a deep, thrumming life.

And then—

The voice came.

Not spoken aloud, but poured into his mind like cool water through parched soil.

"You seek the lifeblood."

Argolaith swallowed hard, feeling the tree's ancient awareness brush against his thoughts.

He nodded once. "I do."

"You have passed the trials.

You have borne the scars.

You have carried the weight of others' hopes."

The tree's branches swayed, though there was no wind.

"But my wound has not healed.

My roots are not whole.

I cannot move without aid."

The roots shivered, and a thick vine—half-formed and trembling—reached toward Argolaith like a pleading hand.

"If you would claim the lifeblood…

Then you must carry me."

Argolaith blinked. "Carry you?"

The tree's presence deepened, surrounding him.

"Carry me back.

To the temple where I was torn away.

Only there may my memory be mended."

"Only then may you take my blood."

Argolaith stepped closer, hand outstretched.

The broken but living Yuneith wasn't enormous—no taller than a two-story house now, its trunk narrow enough that a group of men could surround it if they tried.

But it was still a tree.

Heavy. Rooted deep even in this ruined ground.

Kaelred, watching from the edge of the basin, muttered, "Uh… how exactly are you supposed to carry a whole tree?"

Malakar's voice was thoughtful. "Not by strength alone."

Thae'Zirak stepped forward, lowering his head near Argolaith. "The tree's will anchors it. It must choose to be moved. Only through bond… through understanding… can it be lifted."

The tree pulsed again.

And Argolaith understood.

It wasn't about muscle.

It wasn't about magic.

It was about connection.

Trust.

He placed his hand against the bark.

The surface was rough, warm beneath his fingers, pulsing with faint energy.

He closed his eyes.

He thought of every step that had led him here.

The first tree and its lonely trial.

The countless miles through death and ruin.

The friends who walked beside him even when they didn't have to.

The root fragment pulsing at his side with quiet faith.

The flame inside him that no fear, no doubt, had extinguished.

He let it all pour into his hand—into Yuneith.

And the tree responded.

Roots unwound from the ground, lifting free with faint shivers of dust and mist.

The branches folded inward, wrapping tight into a dense spiral, shrinking slightly, condensing into something that shimmered between wood and light.

Not dead.

Dormant.

Ready to be carried.

The memory of a tree waiting to be restored.

Argolaith knelt and lifted it carefully.

It was heavy—but not in the way a burden is.

It was heavy like a promise.

Kaelred stared. "You actually did it."

Malakar stepped forward, gazing at the now-dormant Yuneith cradled in Argolaith's arms.

"No," he said quietly. "They did it together."

Argolaith turned toward the broken path that would lead them back toward the distant temple.

Toward the sanctum where Yuneith's memory had first been torn away.

And without hesitation—

He began to walk.