God’s Tree

The stars of Elyrion gleamed softly overhead.

Argolaith stood at the top of the ridge, arms folded loosely, watching the frogs below.

They were scattered peacefully across the fields—resting on stone, nestled in soft grass, soaking in the mana-rich air.

He let the quiet stay a little longer.

No need to rush.

But eventually, he stepped back.

He raised a hand and activated the return glyph near the core.

The wind didn't stir. The sky didn't shift.

Yet the world around him faded gently, folding in on itself like a dream being tucked away.

In the next blink, he was back in his room.

The cube pulsed once as the entrance sealed itself.

Argolaith placed the cube back on the desk, then stretched with a quiet sigh.

He glanced at the clock rune hovering near the wall.

Class hours were still open.

No messages. No warnings.

But something tugged at his thoughts—a feeling like something was about to change.

He stepped into the academy's main hallway and joined the steady flow of students weaving between marble arches and floating stairwells.

There was an odd buzz in the air today.

Not chaotic.

Just… tense.

Subtle murmurs passed between groups.

Mentions of a new trial.

Something called the Door of Silver Thought.

He turned down a hallway leading into the east wing, where upper-year classes usually gathered.

At the end of the corridor stood a tall, silver-framed archway that hadn't been there the day before.

Its runes shimmered with logic-based mana—quiet, calculating, like a mind watching itself.

An instructor stood nearby, arms folded, scanning the approaching students.

When Argolaith drew closer, the instructor raised an eyebrow.

"You're cleared to enter," he said, without even asking for a token.

Argolaith paused.

"What's on the other side?"

The man shrugged.

"Depends on the mind that steps through it."

More students gathered behind him.

Curious. Cautious.

Argolaith looked once more at the door.

The frame shimmered faintly, and the runes shifted in response to his presence.

The air grew still.

Like the door was listening.

And waiting.

He stepped forward.

The runes pulsed in approval.

And the doorway opened—not with light, but with silence.

A stillness like untouched thought.

Argolaith took one last breath.

And walked through.

The moment Argolaith stepped through the doorway, everything changed.

There was no flash of light. The genuine article resides on M|V|L&EMPYR.

No sudden pull of magic.

Just… quiet.

And then a room that wasn't a room at all.

He stood in an endless white space.

No walls.

No ceiling.

No floor he could see—only a faint surface beneath his feet, like walking on memory.

And in the center, floating before him, was a single chair.

Facing away.

Empty.

A voice echoed softly, not from any direction, but from inside his thoughts.

"This is not a test of strength."

"This is a mirror of the mind."

The chair turned slowly.

Now occupied.

By… himself.

The other Argolaith looked up and smiled.

It wasn't cruel.

It wasn't warm.

Just calm.

"You've built a realm," the reflection said. "But can you build within?"

Argolaith didn't move.

This wasn't an illusion.

He could feel the mana—subtle and refined—working with thought, not power.

The reflection stood and walked in a circle around him.

"Everyone sees your strength."

"But what would they find if they saw your decisions?"

Suddenly, the white space shifted.

They stood at the edge of a battlefield—scorched and silent.

One side lay in ruins.

The other untouched.

In the center was Argolaith, holding a glowing cube, the same as the one that carried Elyrion.

Around him were people. Watching. Waiting.

"If peace is fragile," the reflection asked, "would you give it to others?"

Argolaith didn't answer.

He looked down at the cube.

Then up at the people.

Their faces were blurry, but their eyes were clear.

Hope. Fear. Wonder.

And silence.

The reflection turned again.

Now they were in a quiet garden.

Frogs rested peacefully on warm stones.

A soft wind blew through golden grass.

"What if this is all you ever protect?"

"Will it be enough?"

Argolaith closed his eyes.

And whispered: "Yes."

The space pulsed.

The illusion cracked.

And everything began to fade into soft, silver light.

He opened his eyes.

Back in the academy.

Standing just beyond the archway.

Time hadn't moved.

But something inside him had.

The instructor nodded slightly.

"Few come out that quickly."

Argolaith didn't reply.

He didn't need to.

Argolaith stepped back from the silver doorway.

The runes dimmed behind him, quiet as fading thoughts.

He took a slow breath.

Whatever the Door of Silver Thought had done, it hadn't drained him—it had centered him.

It hadn't judged him by what he could destroy.

Only by what he would preserve.

The instructor gave him a curious glance.

But Argolaith simply nodded and walked away.

There was no applause.

No announcement.

Just the steady rhythm of his footsteps down the corridor.

Across the academy, in a separate wing rarely traveled by newer students, the twelve prodigies stood in a ring of glowing sigils.

Each one carried the marks of recent trials—scuffed robes, tired eyes, faint runes still dimming on their hands.

The chamber buzzed with fading magic.

The last of their practical exams had just ended.

One of them—Caelus—rubbed the side of his jaw, still annoyed from the verbal exchange he'd had with a simulated council of nobles.

"These political tests are worse than the combat ones," he muttered. "At least fireballs don't lie to your face."

Lira, the second-year conjurer, rolled her eyes. "That's because fireballs can't be bribed."

Some of the others laughed quietly.

But the weight of the exams still clung to the air.

Over the last few weeks, the prodigies had been tested on more than magic.

They had debated kingdom disputes.

Negotiated peace between illusion-generated empires.

Led squads through simulated siege warfare.

And not all of them had passed every scenario.

"Still," said Seryn, her gaze sharp as always, "I'd rather take ten more political debates than walk into that Door of Silver Thought."

"I heard Argolaith went through it this morning," someone said from the side.

The group stilled.

Heads turned.

Caelus frowned. "Already?"

"He just arrived at the academy, what… weeks ago?"

Another prodigy, the quiet one with the pact mark on his collarbone, leaned forward.

"I heard something else too," he said. "From one of the rune halls. Two of the elders were talking—whispers about a realm."

Lira blinked. "What kind of realm?"

"Not a training zone," he said. "Not a projection. A real one. Hidden. Built."

A pause followed.

Seryn narrowed her eyes. "And they were talking about Argolaith?"

The boy nodded.

Silence fell between them again.

Magic? Sure.

Mystery? Always.

But a realm?

Built by a student?

Even for them… that was hard to believe.

"Maybe that's why he passed that duel with Caelus so easily," someone said.

Caelus scowled, but said nothing.

The memory of losing with one swing still stung.

Especially since Argolaith had used a wooden sword.

"Whatever it is," Seryn said, "if it's true, the elders are watching him closely."

She folded her arms.

"And we should too."

The others nodded.

For now, the trials were over.

But something was shifting.

And they all felt it.