God’s Tree

The days passed slowly in Seminah, and for the first time in a long while, Argolaith let them.

No rushing, no monsters, no divine trials clawing at his heels—just mornings of quiet air, evenings of firelight, and long silences that didn't weigh heavy like they once did. Kaelred spent most of his time lounging under the sun or trading sarcastic comments with villagers brave enough to speak with him. Malakar visited the library daily, always returning with old books and older questions.

Argolaith mostly stayed near the cabin.

There was still something waiting in him—some internal pull toward the fourth tree—but it didn't claw yet. It pulsed. Quiet. Patient.

And then one morning, he noticed it.

The seed… was growing.

He had left it on the cabin's windowsill, tucked inside a small bowl for safekeeping. But today, when he approached to open the shutters, he saw thin tendrils of light curling out of it.

Not roots.

Not vines.

But strands of translucent energy—like threads of silver and green mist, coiling around themselves and reaching toward the air.

Argolaith froze.

The seed pulsed, once, gently.

Kaelred walked in, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Making breakfast or talking to your vegetables?"

Argolaith turned slowly. "It's… growing."

Kaelred squinted. "There's no soil in that bowl."

"I know."

Kaelred took a step closer, then stopped. "Okay. That's creepy."

Argolaith nodded. "I'm going to plant it."

Kaelred raised an eyebrow. "In what? It doesn't need dirt."

Argolaith just looked at him. "It needs to be somewhere."

Kaelred gave a half-smile. "Fine. I'll go find Malakar and tell him you're raising ghost plants now."

Outside, the morning breeze was soft. The grass near the cabin shimmered faintly with dew, and the air carried the smell of cedar and frost-kissed wildflowers.

Argolaith stepped to the side of the cabin, near the old tree stump where he used to chop firewood. He knelt down and, without hesitation, dug into the earth with his bare hands. The soil was cool, rich, and familiar.

He didn't know what the seed was.

He didn't know why it had been given to him.

But he knew it wanted to grow.

He placed it gently in the hole, covered it with earth, and sat back.

For a long moment… nothing happened.

And then—

The ground pulsed.

Softly.

A heartbeat beneath the dirt.

A ring of green light spread out from the planted seed like ripples in water, vanishing after a few feet. Argolaith watched the earth settle.

Then he stood and returned to the cabin.

He didn't touch it again.

That evening, as the fire cracked inside and Kaelred made dinner with an impressive lack of culinary talent, Argolaith stepped outside once more.

The stars were beginning to emerge—cold white specks scattered across the indigo sky. And near the edge of the cabin, where he had planted the seed, the grass had grown taller, greener, more vibrant.

And at the center of it all, a small sprout had appeared.

No bigger than a finger.

But it glowed faintly with the same strange light he had seen pulsing inside the seed. Not moonlight. Not magic.

Something else.

Something old.

Behind him, Malakar stepped out onto the porch. "It's responding to you."

Argolaith didn't look away. "What is it?"

Malakar was silent for a moment. Then he said, "A beginning."

Three days passed.

The seed had become a sprout, and the sprout had begun to twist.

Not upward—no. It didn't follow the laws of the forest. Its stem curved like a slow spiral, pale green threaded with silver veins, the leaves too narrow, too sharp-edged to belong to any species Argolaith recognized.

By the fourth morning, it stood nearly knee-height.

Its glow had softened but not faded.

At night, it shimmered like starlight caught in dew. During the day, it seemed to vanish in direct sunlight, almost translucent—until one stood close.

And Argolaith was standing close.

He had awoken before dawn, the cabin still dark. Kaelred snored softly in the opposite corner. Malakar sat unmoving in silent meditation near the hearth.

But Argolaith had heard it.

A whisper.

His name.

Not loud. Not sharp.

A soft brush against the inside of his mind.

Gentle. Familiar.

Wrong.

And it came again.

"…Argolaith…"

Now, standing before the spiraled sprout in the chill dawn mist, he could hear it clearly.

The wind wasn't moving.

The leaves weren't rustling.

And yet—

"…you carry more than you know…"

He didn't flinch.

Instead, he crouched.

"What are you?" he asked softly.

The plant didn't move.

But the voice did.

"Memory. Rooted in a bloodline that was never meant to grow here."

Argolaith narrowed his eyes.

"You were planted days ago."

"No."

"I have always been here. I only needed you to see me."

Footsteps approached from behind.

Malakar stood at a careful distance, his hands folded behind his back, violet flames flickering brighter in his sockets.

"You heard it, didn't you?" he asked quietly.

Argolaith nodded. "It knows my name."

Malakar's gaze drifted toward the plant. "It isn't speaking aloud. It's speaking through lineage."

"You mean my blood."

"I mean your presence."

The sprout pulsed again—once—then went still.

Argolaith stood.

"I've taken lifeblood from three trees. That's not a coincidence."

"No," Malakar said. "It's a tether. A bridge."

"To what?"

Malakar turned slightly. "To whoever left you behind."

That night, Argolaith stayed near the sprout long after the others had gone quiet.

He sat cross-legged beside it, the earth cool beneath him, the stars wheeling overhead.

The plant did not grow.

But it watched.

He could feel it.

No roots breaking the soil. No sound.

Just a hum behind his thoughts. A presence ancient and familiar, like a lullaby half-forgotten.

And when sleep finally pulled at the edge of his mind, the whisper came again.

"…not all trees live in forests…"

"…not all roots belong to soil…"

"…but you… you belong to me…"

And for the first time since he planted it—

Argolaith felt afraid.

Not of what the seed was…

…but of who might come looking for it.