God’s Tree

The prodigies lingered after the instructors dismissed them.

Most students would've headed straight to their dorms after such a long exam series.

But not them.

Not today.

Too many questions lingered.

Too many whispers… about him.

Caelus paced near the edge of the glowing ring, arms crossed tight over his chest.

"He went through that door like it was nothing," he muttered. "Didn't even take five minutes."

"That's not possible," Lira said. "I've seen third-years lose their minds in there."

Seryn stood still, eyes closed, thinking.

She didn't trust coincidences.

And nothing about Argolaith had ever felt like one.

"I say we stop waiting for answers," Caelus said. "Let's just ask him what the hell he's hiding."

"He won't tell us," Seryn replied. "Not directly."

Her voice was quiet.

But certain.

"He doesn't move without reason. Everything he does, even when it looks simple… there's more beneath."

Lira looked over at the pact-mage. "You said something about a realm. How do you know it's not just a rumor?"

The boy tapped a glowing mark near his wrist. "I scribed the listening rune myself. It was faint, but real. The elders were cautious when they spoke… like they knew they shouldn't be talking about it."

"A realm… inside a cube," someone added, half to themselves.

"And only he can access it."

A long silence followed.

Then Seryn opened her eyes.

"If he built a realm," she said, "then he didn't just pass the entrance trials."

"He outgrew them."

Meanwhile, across the campus, Argolaith stood in one of the lesser-used observatories.

It was empty at this hour.

The stars overhead weren't real—but they pulsed gently in the enchanted dome, mapping leyline currents across the continent.

He wasn't here for maps.

Just quiet.

The cube rested in his hand.

Still. Unassuming.

But holding so much.

His frogs.

His garden.

His beginning.

He didn't need others to understand it.

Not yet.

But he knew the prodigies were watching now.

He could feel it.

Their curiosity.

Their skepticism.

Their caution.

He didn't mind.

Because when the time came…

He would show them what he'd made.

Not to impress them.

Not to scare them.

But to remind them of something simple:

Not all strength has to be loud.

The stars above the observatory glowed softly, casting pale silver light across the circular floor. Argolaith stood in silence beneath them, the cube resting quietly in his palm.

He didn't need to activate it.

Not yet.

But his fingers remained curled gently around it, as if the weight of Elyrion—its stillness, its warmth—grounded him more than the stone beneath his feet.

The world outside the cube was louder. Brighter. Sharper.

But inside?

Inside was his answer to everything the academy represented, and everything it had forgotten.

Far from the observatory, deep within the western spire, the twelve prodigies had gathered again. Not in a formal classroom, and not by instruction.

This was their own meeting.

No teachers.

No barriers.

Just questions.

And maybe answers.

Caelus sat on the windowsill, one leg dangling over the edge, eyes narrowed as he watched the illusionary sky above. Lira leaned against a support column, arms crossed, while Seryn stood at the table in the center of the room, eyes scanning the floating map projected in front of her.

"We've all seen him in combat," Caelus began. "Even when I fought him, I thought I had the upper hand until the very last second. But it wasn't just strength. It was control."

Lira nodded. "And the way he dodged my illusion traps in the maze trial… it wasn't random. He knew where they were."

"He's precise," said another. "Too precise."

Seryn flicked her fingers and zoomed in on a part of the map. Not a map of the realm. A map of the academy's leyline convergence points.

"He's been spotted near here," she said, pointing to one of the off-limits projection chambers.

"He's not subtle," Caelus muttered.

"No," Seryn replied. "Because he doesn't think he needs to be."

One of the quieter students stepped forward—Renna, a second-year tactician known more for her listening than her words.

"I think the elders are preparing him for something," she said. "Something beyond what we've been allowed to touch."

A hush followed her statement.

It wasn't a wild guess.

They'd all heard the whispers.

And worse—the elders' silence when Argolaith's name came up.

Seryn finally spoke again.

"I'm going to talk to him."

Caelus raised an eyebrow. "Talk? Not challenge?"

She met his gaze. "If we confront him like an enemy, we'll never learn what he's building. I want the truth, not a broken arm."

Lira smirked. "Or worse—a broken ego."

Caelus muttered something under his breath, but didn't argue.

At the observatory, Argolaith finally sat down.

He placed the cube on the floor beside him and leaned back against the stone wall.

The stars rotated above him, artificial but comforting. A slow cosmic dance without sound.

His thoughts drifted.

To the frogs.

The garden.

To the reflection in the Door of Silver Thought.

The questions it had asked still lived somewhere deep inside.

What would you protect, if no one could see you do it?

Would peace still matter?

He closed his eyes and let the thought sit.

This world was always looking for loud power.

Explosions.

Battles.

Commanding voices and rising banners.

But he had seen the other side.

Quiet growth.

Still purpose.

And maybe… the prodigies were beginning to feel that too.

He stood up, stretched, and retrieved the cube.

A flick of his hand sealed the chamber behind him as he walked out, footsteps light on the polished floor.

He wasn't in a rush.

But he could sense it.

Someone was coming.

The next morning came with pale orange light filling the high glass corridors of the academy. Runes buzzed faintly in the distance, and instructors passed briskly with scrolls trailing behind them.

Argolaith finished a light breakfast—thin slices of mana-root and steamed whisperberries—and stepped into the central hallway just as the tower bells chimed the first hour.

He hadn't made plans for the day.

Not yet.

But that choice was about to be made for him. For a bet*ter& re#ading e%[email protected]!i.e$nc*e, visit$ M^(V#LEMPYR$).^

Seryn stood at the base of the east stairwell, her arms folded, her expression unreadable.

Argolaith slowed slightly when he saw her.

He recognized the calm in her posture.

Not defensive.

Not aggressive.

Just… deliberate.

"I was wondering when one of you would come," he said, voice low but clear.

"You knew we would," she replied.

He nodded.

They stood quietly for a moment, students passing between them without slowing.

"You've been making ripples," Seryn said. "The others have noticed."

"Then they're observant," he said, unfazed.

"I don't care about rumors," she added. "I care about patterns. And yours don't match the rest of us."

Argolaith tilted his head slightly. "And what do you think that means?"

"That you're either hiding something…" she paused, "…or preparing for something we don't understand yet."

Argolaith didn't reply right away.

He didn't deny it.

Didn't explain.

Instead, he asked, "Would it matter to you if what I was building couldn't be explained with magic?"

Seryn's brow furrowed. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether or not you plan to use it alone."

Another silence passed between them.

Then Argolaith gestured slightly toward one of the quieter garden paths that trailed behind the lecture wings.

"Walk with me."

Seryn nodded once and followed.

They walked without speaking for a while, their footsteps soft against the pale stone paths, mana lanterns humming gently above.

Finally, Argolaith said, "I'm not hiding anything. Not really."

"But you haven't shown us either."

He nodded. "Because it's not finished. And because even half-finished, it's easy to misunderstand."

"Is it dangerous?"

"It can be," he said honestly. "Like anything alive."

"But that's not what it's for."

Seryn glanced at him.

His face was calm.

No ego.

No challenge.

Only purpose.

"What is it for then?" she asked.

He looked ahead, toward the swaying branches of the windfern trees and the sunlight filtering through them.

"To give something peace," he said quietly. "Even if it's just for a moment."

They stopped at a quiet bench overlooking a shallow pond with drifting petals floating across its surface.

Seryn looked at him carefully, as if measuring not just his words—but what they cost him.

Finally, she said, "I won't speak for the others."

"I wouldn't ask you to."

"But if they push, and you stay silent—things might break."

Argolaith nodded. "I know."

Then he reached into his sleeve and took out the cube.

It pulsed once.

Soft. Steady.

"I'll let them see it. Eventually."

Seryn studied the cube, her eyes narrowing slightly at the faint ripple it gave off.

"That's not magic," she whispered.

"No," he agreed. "It's something else."

He placed it back into his sleeve.

And stood.

The peace of the garden held them for a few more moments.

Then Seryn stood as well.

"I'll tell the others," she said. "That you're not a threat."

"They won't believe it," he replied.

Seryn gave a faint smirk.

"No," she said. "But I will."

And then she walked away.