God’s Tree

The duel had ended only hours ago, but the echoes of it still lingered in Argolaith's thoughts.

He had walked off the field in silence, sword sheathed, eyes calm. Kaen had been taken away by healers, mumbling something about power and purpose.

Back in his room, Argolaith was wiping down his blade when the letter arrived. It was sealed with a shimmering crest—thirteen intertwined rings representing the academy's elders.

He broke the seal, unfolding the crisp parchment. The message was brief, written in elegant runes:

"You are invited to the Western Courtyard at sundown. We would like to discuss your recent performance. There will be tea."

Argolaith blinked, then smirked.

He arrived at the courtyard just before the sun began to dip. The garden was quiet, filled with pale-blooming flowers that glowed faintly in the twilight.

A stone table waited beneath an arched canopy of woven vines, with thirteen chairs circling it.

One by one, the elders appeared.

Elder Mirith was the first to arrive, stepping from a shadow that hadn't been there a moment ago. Her eyes regarded him coolly, but she said nothing.

Then came Elder Faeryn, drifting like starlight. He nodded with a soft smile and took his seat.

Elder Brevos thundered in next, crossing his arms and grunting. "That sword of yours nearly shattered the arena walls," he muttered.

Argolaith sat when Veylan gestured for him to. The rest of the elders soon joined, the courtyard taking on the weight of ancient power and subtle curiosity.

A servant placed a tea set before them. The cups shimmered faintly with a calming enchantment. Elder Maedric poured without a word, the scent of fresh herbs drifting through the evening air.

Veylan broke the silence. "You fought well today. Better than expected."

Argolaith didn't reply right away. "Kaen was strong. I learned a lot from that fight."

Elder Lynneia tapped her finger against her cup. "You used your cube in a new way."

Argolaith nodded. "It worked better than I thought. I'm still testing its limits."

"Your restraint," Elder Dorn said softly, "is worth noting."

Elder Arvail pushed her spectacles up her nose. "Had you used Starborn, we might not be sitting in a courtyard."

A quiet chuckle circled the table.

Argolaith sipped his tea and let the moment settle. The night air cooled his skin. Fireflies began to blink between the vines overhead.

Then Elder Solm, whose voice rarely graced meetings, finally spoke. "You are not here for praise alone."

Argolaith met his unseen gaze beneath the hood.

"There is discussion," Solm continued, "that your presence reshapes more than you realize. Some of your choices ripple in directions even we cannot predict."

"I haven't broken anything," Argolaith said calmly. "Not yet."

"No," said Elder Kirell, who'd been silent until now. "But you've bent quite a few things."

Elder Haelorn leaned forward, his form shimmering briefly into that of a serpent. "Tell us what you plan to do next, Argolaith. Before the other students begin to chase after your shadow."

Argolaith glanced up at the canopy of woven branches above. He could hear a frog croaking somewhere nearby, as if a piece of Elyrion had followed him here.

"I plan to keep learning," he said. "To keep building. My realm, my sword, my understanding of what I can do with all this."

Elder Sylra's voice was soft but firm. "And your peers? The prodigies? They're watching now."

Argolaith set his cup down. "Let them. Maybe one of them will teach me something."

The elders watched him for a long moment, and then, almost as one, they nodded.

Tea was poured again. The mood shifted slightly—less formal now, more thoughtful. A quiet understanding was passed between them like the steam rising from their cups.

Tomorrow would come with more lessons. More trials.

But tonight, Argolaith sat with the thirteen oldest mages in the academy, drinking tea beneath a sky full of stars.

Argolaith took a sip of the warm, slightly floral tea as the courtyard settled into a comfortable silence.

The white stone table was shaded by flowering branches, casting soft patterns across the elder's robes.

Elder Kirell sat with his ever-present platinum scroll, flipping pages without touching them.

Elder Faeryn leaned back with eyes closed, listening to the wind as if it carried secrets from the stars.

Veylan remained standing, arms crossed, watching Argolaith as though measuring his breath. "You showed too much," Veylan finally said.

"I didn't mean to," Argolaith replied, voice calm. "He came at me with killing intent. I needed to test the blade."

Elder Lynneia raised a brow but said nothing, her fingers sketching a glowing glyph midair.

"It was reckless," Brevos muttered, his voice like stone grinding. "But efficient." Faeryn gave a small nod. "And a little poetic, if we're being honest."

Solm stirred then, eyes still shadowed beneath his hood. "Balance was preserved, for now." Argolaith glanced at him, uncertain if the elder referred to the duel—or something else entirely.

Elder Mirith finally spoke, his voice like a ripple through void. "Tell us about the cube's edge." His gaze, cold and infinite, locked with Argolaith's.

Argolaith set the cup down and summoned the blade. The cube shimmered into place at the edge of the metal, thin and light-devouring.

"It absorbs spells. Either converts them into raw mana or stores them. Eventually, it forges a new spell."

Maedric leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. "Do you intend to sell this technology?" Argolaith shook his head. "It only works with my magic. I haven't figured out why."

Rutha gave a dreamy laugh, eyes half-lidded. "Because it wasn't made to be shared. Some things are meant to be singular."

There was a pause as the tea was refilled and birds chirped softly from beyond the hedge. Then Kirell said, "Your records have been updated. You've earned ten thousand merit credits for magical innovation and combat achievement."

Argolaith blinked. "That much?" Lynneia nodded. "It's rarely awarded, but your contributions exceed expectation."

"I still have more to do," Argolaith said quietly. "The sword isn't finished. Neither am I." His voice held no arrogance, just steady truth.

Brevos smirked. "Then we'll expect to see more chaos."

As the sun moved higher, the elders stood one by one and vanished, leaving behind only the scent of tea and lingering tension.

Veylan remained behind a moment longer, clapped Argolaith on the shoulder, and said, "Don't let this go to your head."

"I won't."

Then Argolaith was alone in the courtyard, sword still humming faintly in his hand. He looked up at the sky, exhaled, and thought about the next thing he had to build.

Argolaith returned to Elyrion as dusk settled across the realm, the gentle pulse of its dual stars casting golden light across the mossy landscape.

He moved quietly through the grove until he reached the small pond he had carved from the earth—now teeming with life.

The frogs greeted him with soft croaks, hopping in and out of the clear water. He knelt beside the pond, resting his arms on his knees, simply watching them in their quiet joy.

Some frogs swam beneath the lily pads, while others leapt from mossy rocks. But it was one, glowing faintly with blue runes along its back, that caught his attention.

The little frog hopped once, paused, and then released a thin ripple of magic—soft and fluid, forming tiny glowing spheres in the air.

Another frog caught one with its tongue, and the first croaked happily before conjuring more.

Argolaith blinked slowly, leaning closer. It wasn't structured spellwork.

This was instinct—pure, natural expression of magic from a creature born in a realm shaped by magic itself.

He smiled faintly, not interrupting, letting the frogs continue their game. The air was peaceful, the kind of quiet he'd only found within Elyrion.

He scribbled a note in his journal, observing the patterns of the glowing orbs. They flickered in rhythm with the frog's breathing and responded to the second frog's movement.

"This one's developing its own way to play," he murmured. "Maybe even building a magical language."

He pulled his knees up and rested his chin on them, staring into the pond. Hours passed like minutes. When he looked up, the stars of Elyrion were already drifting overhead.

He whispered, "I should start designing a magical field for them. Something to guide, not control."

Behind him, the tall grass swayed. The air held a quiet hum—Elyrion responding to its creator.

Argolaith stayed beside the water until the frogs slept, then walked toward the cabin, his thoughts full of new plans.

The next morning, Argolaith sat cross-legged beside the pond, sunlight pouring through Elyrion's shifting canopy. The frogs stirred lazily, a few already paddling across the water's surface.

He ran his fingers across the dirt, then closed his eyes. The cube hovered beside him, faintly pulsing with stored mana. He didn't need to use it—not for this.

He began weaving soft rune threads into the earth around the pond. Not for control, but to encourage safe growth. The frogs' magic would flow freely, but gently shaped so it wouldn't spiral out of control.

As the runes took shape, the land responded.

Little veins of light etched themselves into the ground in a circle, forming an invisible dome that shimmered faintly. It breathed with the realm's energy, just enough to harmonize with the frogs' play.

Argolaith opened one eye and watched as the same blue frog from the day before nudged another into the water. A ripple of light danced across the pond, guided but unhindered.

"Good," he whispered. "Now you won't accidentally blow up the cabin."

He stood slowly and inspected the rest of the runic pattern. They were basic at a glance—light-threading runes, frequency filters, mana limiters—but combined with Elyrion's innate energy, they became something more.

The cube flickered.

He glanced at it and smiled. "Not yet," he said, patting it. "We'll test you again soon."

As he walked around the pond, frogs hopped after him, the blue one sticking closer than the others. It blinked up at him, and for a moment, he swore it mimicked his stride.

Argolaith chuckled. "You want a name?"

The frog blinked once, its glow pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

"Then I'll think of one," he promised.

He returned to the cabin, made himself a cup of tea from dried mossflower petals, and scribbled notes into his journal about the runes and the frog behavior.

The day passed slowly, gently.

A peaceful hum blanketed Elyrion.

And by sunset, the frogs played beneath a shield of soft runes, magic dancing in small arcs across the water—safe, pure, and growing.