I Was Reborn in Another World, But I Awoke Inside a Corpse

Chapter 125: A Crown of Reason, a Heart of Root

Beneath the singing branches of Yggdrasil, Aelira sat alone in the Thalara observatory—a chamber of woven starlight, moon-silver glass, and mirrored bark. The night wrapped around the tower like a gentle cloak, but her mind was far from gentle.

She rested one hand atop the rune-etched railing, fingers tracing the slow pulse of the living wood. Every hour, she checked. Every breath, she listened.

The World Tree still whispered.

But its voice… was thinner than before.

She closed her eyes.

'Three days. Three visible fractures. A twelve-point loss of mana flow.'

The data circled in her head like birds over still water. She was good with patterns—always had been. She was raised to be precise, logical, measured. When others trusted instinct or prophecy, Aelira trusted facts.

And the facts spoke clearly.

The Tree began withering on the same day he arrived.

Aelira turned away from the window, robes trailing behind her. On the nearby table lay a crystalline report sheet inscribed with rootflow diagrams and council annotations. The visual patterns told their own story—one she didn't want to accept.

Yet even now, doubt tugged at her.

Isaac.

A stranger with no name, no origin, no lineage… and no fear of gods. A man who stood in the heart of their most sacred hall and spoke with clarity, not arrogance. One who wielded a weapon no elf could forge and did not flinch when judgment threatened to fall.

Her mind told her to keep questioning.

But something deeper—less clear—whispered that she might have misjudged him.

She sighed, seating herself at the edge of the long stone bench beside the observatory flame. The flickering light cast long shadows across her face, catching the subtle tension in her jaw.

Sylvalen had always been the idealist. The dreamer. But she had never been a fool.

If someone like Sylvalen could forge a bond of that magnitude with an outsider… then perhaps it was Aelira who had fallen behind. Too rooted in caution. Too proud.

"You are not wrong to be suspicious," she whispered aloud. "But you may still be wrong."

There was no shame in doubt. Only in refusing to face it.

And so, in the stillness of that tower, she made a quiet promise to herself.

If Isaac was truly connected to the Tree's decay, she would act without hesitation.But if he was not—if Brynhildr's message proved true—then she would apologize.Publicly. Sincerely. Without reservation.

Not as a sister.

Not as a councilor.

But as a leader who understood that truth mattered more than pride.

She looked up toward the boughs of Yggdrasil, rising far above her—its presence still mighty, even as it trembled.

"We've survived wars, storms, gods," she murmured. "We will survive this too."

But in her heart, she could not deny the quiet ache forming beneath her reason.

Because for all her logic, all her composure… she still feared what might come next.

And for the first time in many years, she wondered if the world was changing faster than even the Elves could comprehend.