God’s Tree

The temple groaned behind them as they stepped out into the cold light of Morgoth's morning.

The once-still clearing around the broken obelisks now seemed to buzz faintly with new energy, the ancient wards no longer strong enough to mask the temple's presence. The land was shifting, waking in ways it hadn't for countless years.

Argolaith stood at the edge of the clearing, the small root fragment in his hand glowing steadily. It pulsed with a rhythm that thrummed up his arm and into his chest—a living guide, a heartbeat pointing toward something distant.

Toward Yuneith.

The true Yuneith.

The part that had been left behind when the Hand of Nelrith tore it from the world.

Kaelred pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "So, how exactly does that thing work?"

Argolaith watched the root carefully. "It's not showing me a clear path. More like… pulling me. Guiding me where it feels strongest."

Malakar's skeletal fingers brushed the air near the fragment, his violet gaze unreadable. "It is following the memory scar."

Thae'Zirak crouched low behind them in his smaller form, tail lashing slowly. "The land remembers where the tree once stood. Follow that fracture… and you find what was lost."

Argolaith nodded and set off without another word.

The others followed.

They moved quickly across the torn landscape.

The forest near the temple grew stranger with every step—trees twisted at odd angles, roots jutting from the ground like broken ribs, patches of soil that shimmered faintly in the light as if remembering the sacred life that once grew there.

At times, the path seemed to vanish entirely.

At others, it opened like a wound in the earth, clear and unmistakable.

Argolaith kept his eyes on the pulsing fragment.

When he drifted too far from the hidden scar in the world, the root dimmed. When he corrected his course, it flared stronger, almost humming with approval.

The others said little.

Kaelred occasionally muttered about how "nothing good ever happened after a magic root started glowing."

Malakar remained silent, moving with quiet precision, his robes whispering across the cracked stone and wild grass.

Thae'Zirak kept to the air when he could, his wings sending gusts of silver dust into the air that glittered and vanished.

The land itself seemed empty—but not dead.

It was watching.

Hours passed.

The pulse of the fragment grew faster, the tug on Argolaith's chest tightening like a cord being pulled taut.

At last, they crested a low hill—and saw it.

In the valley below, where the forest broke into a wide, mist-choked basin, there stood a single tree.

Or rather—

What was left of one.

It was no taller than a house, twisted and gnarled, its bark blackened by ancient scars. But even from this distance, Argolaith could feel it.

The same pulse.

The same breath.

The same memory.

"That's it," Argolaith said, voice low.

Kaelred squinted. "That's what's left of a sacred tree?"

Thae'Zirak growled faintly. "No. That is the root that was severed when the Hand tore Yuneith from the earth."

Malakar nodded. "The heart of its memory."

Argolaith tightened his grip on the fragment.

It burned now—warm, insistent, eager.

"We're close," he said. "But something feels… off."

Kaelred drew his daggers. "Because it's never this easy."

Malakar's gaze sharpened, scanning the basin.

"They left something behind to guard the wound."

As they descended toward the valley, the mist thickened.

Every step felt heavier.

The fragment pulsed faster, almost vibrating.

And then—

A low, deep growl echoed through the mist.

It wasn't a normal beast's growl.

It was hollow. Ancient. Made of something deeper than flesh or breath.

Thae'Zirak's wings flared out instinctively.

"We are not alone."

Argolaith stared ahead into the fog, where the broken tree's silhouette loomed like a silent sentinel.

Whatever had been left to guard the wound of Yuneith's memory—

It had felt them coming.

And it was waiting.

The mist grew heavier with every step into the basin.

It clung to Argolaith's skin, dampening sound, smothering the air, twisting every shadow into something almost—but not quite—alive. He tightened his grip on the root fragment at his belt. Its steady pulse had become erratic, flashing brighter with each heartbeat, as if sensing the unseen threads tangled ahead.

Kaelred walked a few paces behind, daggers drawn and eyes darting from shape to shifting shape.

Malakar was calm, but Argolaith noticed how he moved closer to the center of their group now—a subtle tell. Even Thae'Zirak, usually fearless, flew low and slow overhead, wings almost brushing the mist as if reluctant to soar too high above the broken ground.

The broken tree stood ahead, blurred by the white haze.

And between them and it—

The mist moved.

Not stirred by the wind.

Not bent by breath.

It shaped itself.

Figures began to form.

Not beasts.

People.

Argolaith blinked, and suddenly—

The landscape around him changed.

Gone were Kaelred, Malakar, and Thae'Zirak.

Gone was the broken root of Yuneith.

Instead, he stood in the heart of Seminah.

His home.

The town was whole, bustling, filled with faces he barely remembered—shopkeepers, farmers, travelers laughing in the morning sun. The scent of fresh bread drifted from the bakery, and somewhere, a child's laughter rang out.

For a moment, the sight was so achingly real that it took everything he had not to drop his sword.

But the root fragment burned against his side—searing hot.

Warning him.

This was not real.

A woman approached him—gray hair braided neatly, carrying a basket of herbs. Her face was kind, her smile radiant.

"Aren't you tired, Argolaith?" she said, her voice warm and familiar, though he knew he had never seen her before.

"Come home."

He gritted his teeth.

"No."

The town shivered.

The sky cracked.

And Seminah crumbled like dust around him.

Kaelred stumbled through his own haze, blinking rapidly.

He was in a battlefield now, knee-deep in mud, surrounded by bodies—his friends', his enemies'. All of them stared at him with blank, accusing eyes.

"You weren't fast enough," they whispered.

"You couldn't save them."

"You're nothing without them."

Kaelred almost believed it—felt the sting of it behind his ribs.

But then he remembered the real faces of his friends—the way Argolaith always pushed forward, stubborn as a mountain; the way Malakar stood watch even when no one asked.

And he snarled.

"I'm more than what you say."

He slashed the illusion apart with a sweep of his dagger, tearing the mist into ribbons.

Malakar's mist took another form.

He stood once again before the gates of the greater realms.

Figures robed in light towered over him, their faces veiled, their judgment ringing through the marble streets.

"You are not one of us," they intoned.

"You will never ascend."

"You are filth dressed in stolen power."

Malakar bowed his head—but only briefly.

When he raised it again, his violet eyes burned with a quiet certainty.

"I needed no throne then. I need none now."

The vision shattered around him, and the mist recoiled.

Together, they regrouped.

Each of them had burned away their illusions, standing alone and yet together again at the center of the basin.

The mist thinned slightly—but only enough to reveal the guardian.

It was not a beast.

It was a form woven of roots and memory, shaped vaguely like a man, yet too tall, its limbs stretched and twisted, bark splitting at the joints, silver light leaking from the cracks. Its face was smooth and featureless, save for two hollow eyes that burned like dying stars.

It stood between them and the broken remains of Yuneith.

Silent.

Waiting.

The root fragment at Argolaith's belt pulsed faster—almost frantic.

This was the true guardian of the wounded memory.

It would not speak.

It would not reason.

It would test.

Argolaith stepped forward, sword in hand.

And the guardian raised a single arm.

The ground trembled.

The final trial began.