God’s Tree

The classroom felt like a sanctuary.

Soft light filtered from crystal globes set into the ceiling. The air carried the faint scent of wild mint and damp earth. Everything here seemed alive… but unhurried.

Argolaith sat near the back, quietly watching the instructor as she entered.

She was tall, with a long moss-green robe and sleeves that shimmered like woven leaves. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm and clear.

"Today," she began, "we continue with the classification of harmonious magical creatures—those that exist without aggression, born not of conflict, but of nature's quiet breath."

She moved to a large circular scrying basin in the center of the room and waved a hand over the surface.

A glowing image rose—of a creature no taller than a child, with wings like silk veils and eyes that shimmered like early dawn.

"This is a glidebloom," she said. "They float through the upper canopy of rainwood forests, feeding on filtered sunlight and soft sound. Too much noise causes them to dim. Too little, and they grow restless."

The image shifted.

Next appeared a group of hollow-tusks, massive, gentle giants that grazed in herds across moss-covered lowlands.

"They don't have true bones," the instructor explained, "but a framework of crystallized mana. Their call sounds like wind through glass."

The students leaned in.

Some took notes. Others just listened.

Argolaith remained still, absorbing each word.

"These creatures don't shape the land through force," she continued, "but through presence. Their patterns, their paths—these change the ecosystems around them."

She raised a hand, and the image flickered again.

Now a stream of tiny mistweavers floated across the water's surface—barely visible, their bodies almost like strands of light.

"They live inside fog. Completely dependent on moisture and silence. If the air is disturbed, they vanish until the balance returns."

Another shift.

This time, the instructor showed what looked like a glowing cluster of moss nestled on a stone.

It pulsed slowly, like it was breathing.

"This is soulmoss. Technically not an animal, but its reaction to emotional energy is so attuned that it's considered semi-sentient. In ancient times, healers kept it near patients to ease dreams and pain."

Argolaith watched carefully.

Each creature had a place. A rhythm. A purpose without violence.

Not made for war.

Not made for power.

Just… made.

"Not all peaceful creatures are large or gentle in the usual sense," the instructor said, voice steady.

She summoned the image of a needlelight—a nearly invisible creature no longer than a finger.

It pulsed once, then vanished.

"They live in fireflower fields. Their bodies emit calming frequencies that affect larger creatures nearby. Entire herds can rest at ease if just one needlelight is near."

The class murmured softly.

Even Argolaith raised an eyebrow.

There was something about the idea of peace radiating outward… without words.

Without spellwork.

She moved one last time toward the edge of the basin.

The image now showed a slow-moving shape of mist, curled in the crook of a glowing tree.

No features.

No face.

Just form and motion.

"This is called a drifter. No known age. No fixed location. It appears only in places where no blood has been spilled for a century or more."

The room went quiet.

No one asked a question.

The instructor folded her hands in front of her.

"There are forces in this world that don't need to speak loudly to leave an impression. Some creatures are woven into the quiet, and in the quiet, they thrive."

The glow in the room dimmed slightly.

The basin darkened.

The lecture had ended—but the silence that followed held weight.

Argolaith leaned back in his seat, mind still turning.

Peaceful creatures. Stillness. Subtle influence.

Things that changed the world… gently.

And for the first time, he felt a question rising inside him.

Not about magic.

Not about power.

But about what kind of presence he wanted to create.

The scrying basin dimmed.

The room remained quiet.

Most students stayed in their seats, as if the peacefulness in the air held them in place.

Argolaith remained still too, his gaze on the space where the drifter had hovered.

The idea of a creature born of stillness…

Of peace preserved for a hundred years…

It stayed with him.

He stood slowly and crossed the room.

The instructor was gathering her notes, her motions slow and practiced.

She looked up as he approached, the moss-green sleeves of her robe catching the light.

Her eyes were calm.

"Something on your mind?" she asked gently.

Argolaith nodded.

He hesitated, then asked:

"Can stillness… change a place?"

She tilted her head, considering his words.

"Change how?" she asked.

"I mean—not through power or rule. But through presence. Can a creature's calm… shape the world around it?"

The instructor smiled softly.

"It already does."

She motioned for him to follow and walked with him toward one of the shallow creature pools near the wall.

Inside floated a glowing ribbon fish no longer than her hand.

It drifted in circles above a bed of soft moss.

"Watch."

Argolaith leaned closer.

The fish never touched the water's surface.

It barely moved at all.

But the moss beneath it slowly shifted color—softening from green to silver-blue.

"It's called a quiet scale," she said. "It doesn't speak. It doesn't cast spells. It just… exists. But in every place it rests, the land sleeps better. Crops grow steadier. Emotions settle."

Argolaith watched the fish for a long moment.

Its light pulsed once, then again.

He whispered, "Why don't more people talk about creatures like this?"

The instructor looked at him with a strange, knowing sadness.

"Because they don't win battles. They don't protect kingdoms. They don't roar."

She paused.

"But the places they touch… remember them forever."

He turned to her again.

"Could someone learn how to care for them? Create a place that welcomes them?"

"You could," she said.

"But they don't come because you want them to. They come when a place is ready. When it's gentle enough to listen."

Argolaith nodded slowly.

His thoughts returned to Elyrion.

Maybe it didn't need more stars.

Or more magic.

Maybe it needed… something else.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

The instructor smiled.

"If you ever want to return," she said, "this room is always open to the curious."

Argolaith stepped back, offered a polite nod, and made his way to the door.

Behind him, the quiet scale drifted gently through the water, and the moss continued to glow.

The halls of the academy were quieter than usual.

Argolaith walked them slowly, his hands in his pockets, his thoughts elsewhere.

The words from the creature class still circled in his head.

Not everything needed to be big.

Not every presence needed to be powerful.

The ribbon fish.

The soulmoss.

The soft-breathing frogs that blinked in silence.

He could still feel the instructor's words echoing faintly.

"They don't come because you want them to. They come when a place is ready." My Virtual Library Empire (M|V|L0EMPYR) hosts the original.

He returned to his room without speaking to anyone.

The moment the door closed behind him, he crossed to the table.

The cube sat where he'd left it—calm, quiet, untouched.

He placed his hand over it, and the entrance to Elyrion opened with a soft pulse of light.

He stepped inside.

The realm greeted him like it always did.

Still sky.

Warm breeze.

A sun that gave light but not heat.

Two stars watching from far above.

He walked slowly down the hill and into the tall golden grass.

The frogs were there—scattered across stones and flowerbeds.

Resting. Breathing.

Present.

One of them hopped over as he crouched.

It paused at his boot, tilted its head, and blinked once.

Argolaith smiled faintly.

He reached down and let it climb into his palm.

It was warm. Lighter than it looked.

He sat in the grass for a while, watching the others.

Dozens of them now.

Each one in tune with the land in some small, perfect way.

He thought of all the creatures he'd seen.

The majestic ones.

The rare ones.

The strange ones that lived in silence or fog or dreams.

And then he looked down again.

At the frog sitting quietly in his hand.

Doing nothing.

Needing nothing.

But here.

"I think," Argolaith said softly, "this is enough."

The frog blinked again.

And that was all.

He stood, carrying it gently back to the stone where it had been resting.

He placed it there and stepped back.

No more searching.

No more summoning.

No more thinking about what else the realm needed.

It had them.

And that was enough.

The frogs were peaceful.

Resilient.

Uncomplicated.

And more than that—they didn't need to conquer the space they lived in.

They simply fit.

Argolaith walked to the top of the ridge and looked out across the land.

Elyrion felt calm today.

And he knew why.

It didn't need guardians or beasts.

Just these tiny, blinking creatures and the warmth they left behind.

He whispered to himself, "This place will always be for them."