God’s Tree

The magic here was old. Prehistoric. It hummed in his blood like a long-lost song, and beneath that hum was something else—

A faint echo.

A memory.

Not his.

Not the dragon's.

The land's.

Visions flickered at the edges of his thoughts—of glowing saplings blooming in endless dark, of elven figures weaving spells to create shelter from the sunless void, of this beast arriving, wounded, guided here by forces unknown.

The elves had not tamed it. They had built around it.

And in turn, it had protected them.

He opened his eyes again.

"I understand now," he murmured.

"This realm doesn't belong to one being. It's shared."

A soft snap echoed behind him.

He turned slowly, and there she was again.

The silver-haired elf.

This time, she didn't vanish.

They stared at one another for a few seconds.

Then she stepped forward and spoke in a soft, ancient dialect.

He didn't understand the words—but the meaning was clear.

Who are you?

"I'm Argolaith," he said calmly. "A guest. Not a threat."

He placed his hand to his chest, then pointed gently to the dragon and the trees.

"I respect this place."

She watched him for a long breath.

Then she nodded.

Once.

Without another word, she turned and vanished once more.

But he had the feeling she would return.

He stood in silence for a while longer, watching the dragon's sleeping form, the shimmer of elven magic through the branches above.

Eventually, he turned back.

As he climbed the slope again, making his way toward where the tunnel ended, he glanced once over his shoulder.

Then smiled.

"Next time… I'll bring tea."

Argolaith moved quietly through the underground forest, each step careful on the soft, mossy ground.

Above him, the glowing stones in the cavern ceiling pulsed gently, casting a twilight hue over the strange sanctuary.

He could feel the magic in the air—dense, slow-moving, ancient.

The trees here were unlike any he'd seen.

Their bark shimmered with faint, swirling patterns, and their leaves seemed to catch and hold the light like tiny stars.

Some even moved slightly, though there was no wind.

Between the roots of one, he found a cluster of soft-blue mushrooms.

They pulsed faintly, emitting a cool glow.

He knelt and carefully placed a few into a small vial from his storage ring.

Further on, he found vines that looped through the air like lazy serpents.

They didn't grow along the ground—they hovered.

Their tips dripped sparkling droplets that vanished before touching the moss.

He made note of their patterns, wondering if they were feeding on ambient magic.

"Living off light and memory," he muttered, writing it down in a notebook he kept tucked inside his cloak.

His handwriting wavered slightly with each heartbeat.

As he walked deeper, he found a grove where the trees thinned slightly.

At the center stood a smooth stone shaped like an enormous bowl, filled with water that reflected the glowing ceiling like a false sky.

Tiny frogs—different from his own—sat silently on the edges.

They didn't react to his presence.

They simply blinked, as if watching him with curiosity more than concern.

He gave them a respectful nod before moving on.

Eventually, he felt the weight of fatigue settle into his bones.

He hadn't realized how far he'd walked.

His sense of time was slipping—it was always twilight here.

He found a space beneath one of the larger trees.

Its roots curved like walls, creating a small, natural shelter.

The moss beneath it was thicker, almost forming a soft bed.

Argolaith removed his cloak and spread it across the moss.

He sat down slowly, resting his back against one of the thick roots.

"Guess this is night," he said to himself, voice barely above a whisper.

He reached into his storage ring and pulled out a small piece of dried saint beast meat and some foraged herbs.

It wasn't much, but it was enough.

He chewed slowly, mind turning over everything he'd seen.

The plants. The frogs. The light that pulsed like breath.

And that dragon, still sleeping in the distance.

Even in dreams, it ruled this place.

Argolaith stared at the ceiling for a while.

The glowing stones above looked like stars, but they were wrong—still, too deliberate in their placement.

They were not the sky. But they were close enough.

Eventually, his eyes grew heavy.

He leaned his head back against the tree.

And just before sleep claimed him, he whispered,

"This place is alive."

Argolaith stirred beneath the tree's roots, eyes opening slowly.

The moss was still cool beneath him, and the light above unchanged—neither brighter nor dimmer.

It was impossible to tell how long he'd slept.

He sat up, stretching his back and rolling his shoulders.

The silence of the underground sanctuary wrapped around him, thick and unmoving.

Only the gentle hum of the glowing stones reminded him that time hadn't stopped.

Pulling a dried fruit from his storage ring, he chewed slowly while listening.

No wind. No birdsong. Just the soft breath of magic in the air.

Somewhere in the distance, the steady rhythm of that deep breathing still echoed faintly.

He stood and brushed moss from his cloak, then took a slow look around the grove.

The frogs by the bowl-shaped stone were still there, unmoving.

Watching. Or maybe dreaming.

Argolaith walked past them and followed the path that sloped deeper into the sanctuary.

His boots made little sound on the moss.

His steps were slow, measured, as if trying not to wake the very earth.

He passed more strange plants—flowers with no petals, only luminous tendrils that drifted in the air like underwater weeds.

They turned faintly toward him as he passed, sensing his mana.

Some even pulsed once, like a heartbeat.

Eventually, the terrain began to shift.

The smooth forest floor turned into scattered stones and roots.

And just ahead, beyond a low wall of shimmering vines, he saw it—the outer edge of the elven village.

The homes were grown, not built.

Massive branches twisted into platforms and walls, glowing softly with runes woven into the bark itself.

Walkways made from vines swung gently between the higher trees.

No one greeted him.

He didn't see anyone, not at first.

But the air held a quiet knowing, like eyes were watching him from behind bark and shadow.

Argolaith raised one hand in greeting.

"I'm just passing through," he said softly, voice steady but calm.

A whisper in a world of whispers.

He didn't walk directly into the village.

Instead, he circled its outer edge, tracing the lines of its energy with his eyes.

There were protective wards woven into the roots of the trees—ancient and alive.

Eventually, curiosity pulled him forward again.

Not toward the homes—but toward the deeper sound.

That slow, massive breathing that pressed against the walls of the world.

He moved carefully now, avoiding vines that hummed with latent energy.

The trees grew larger here, older.

Some had trunks as wide as houses, with doorways grown naturally into their sides.

Then he reached the edge.

The forest floor stopped, turning into a wide ledge of stone that overlooked the deepest basin in the sanctuary.

And at the center of that basin, curled in a bed of glowing crystal, was the dragon.

It was massive.

Its scales shimmered like polished obsidian laced with veins of blue light.

The dragon didn't stir.

Its breaths were slow and deep, rising and falling like tides.

With each exhale, the trees nearby glowed brighter—feeding off the magic it released.

Argolaith watched in silence, unmoving.

There was no fear in him, only awe.

It wasn't a guardian. It wasn't a threat. It was something else entirely.

He sat down on the edge of the ledge, cross-legged, and stared for a while.

Thinking.

Wondering.

Was this dragon born down here? Or did it come seeking something?

Was this sanctuary its nest—or its prison?

He didn't know. And for once, he didn't try to solve it.

Not yet.

He reached into his ring and took out a small piece of parchment.

On it, he began to sketch what he'd seen.

The trees. The crystals. The wards. The dragon.

As his pen moved, a soft wind brushed past him.

It was the first breeze he'd felt since coming underground.

Warm. Gentle. Magical.

Argolaith looked up slowly.

The dragon's eye was open—just one.

Slit-pupiled, glowing faintly, locked on him.

Neither of them moved.

Not for a long moment.

Then, just as slowly, the dragon's eye closed again.

The breeze faded.

And the stillness returned.

Argolaith didn't smile.

But a quiet understanding bloomed in his chest.

He stood and turned away, letting the dragon sleep.

Argolaith walked in silence, leaving the ledge behind.

The dragon's breath still pulsed faintly in the distance, like the beat of a forgotten world.

He didn't look back. He didn't need to.

The path he followed curved gently beneath roots and under hanging moss.

The air was thick with quiet magic—older than anything he had studied in the academy.

Every step felt like it echoed deeper than sound.

He passed beneath an arch of stone, naturally formed and veined with glowing mineral lines.

Ahead, the trees began to open again, welcoming him into the outer edges of the village.

This time, someone was waiting.