God’s Tree

Argolaith returned to Elyrion under a quiet sky after changing his mind about going yo the academy. The air was soft with mist, and the frogs gave soft croaks as he stepped into the clearing near his cabin. He dropped his bag on the table, unrolling the copied scroll of memory glyphs from the Quiet Vault.

The cube floated just beside his shoulder, pulsing gently with curious energy.

He placed the scroll down flat on the table and set the cube atop it. For a few seconds, nothing happened.

Then he poured a small amount of pure mana from his palm.

The scroll glowed faintly.

The cube responded.

A glyph in the center of the scroll flared to life—an intricate swirl of lines wrapped around a single eye-shaped rune. A quiet hum settled into the clearing, low and strange, like the sound of old memories stirring.

Argolaith watched carefully as the magic seeped from the cube into the scroll, flowing like water finding a forgotten path. His heart quickened.

He placed one finger against the central glyph and fed in more mana, slow and steady.

In the trees around him, something shifted.

The wind stopped.

The frogs grew still.

And then, above the trees, a ring of ghostly light formed in the air—like a projection, like a memory trying to remember itself.

It was not a portal.

It was a scene.

It shimmered above the clearing. A spectral version of Elyrion, older, untouched, yet strangely familiar. The trees were taller. The sky dimmer, and around the edge of the image, twelve glowing figures stood with their backs to the vision, as though they had once shaped it.

One of them looked exactly like the statue he'd seen in the sanctuary beneath Morgoth.

Argolaith stood still, eyes wide.

"Is this… what it once was?"

The cube pulsed once, almost like it answered: yes.

He stepped beneath the floating image. It rippled faintly, and he felt a pulse of energy pass through him—warm and sad, like a story that had long been forgotten.

Then the image shattered like glass and vanished.

The scroll went silent.

The cube dimmed.

Argolaith stared at the empty air, breath caught in his throat.

He had seen a glimpse of the past. A memory of Elyrion.

But whose?

He didn't try to activate the rune again. Instead, he sat at the table and scribbled notes, detailing what he saw, the mana required, the reaction from the cube, and the silence of the realm during the process.

Hours passed.

When the frogs finally croaked again, he knew the moment had passed.

He tucked the scroll away carefully and looked out across the pond.

"I need to find out who those twelve were."

Then he whispered, almost to himself, "And if they were trying to save this place… or bury it."

Argolaith woke before the light in Elyrion changed.

The cube hovered quietly by the edge of the table, still dim from the previous night's memory projection. He rose from the chair, stretching with a quiet sigh as frogs stirred by the pond and a ripple of morning breeze brushed through the trees.

But something tugged at his mind.

The vision hadn't just been memory—it had been a message. A trace of something long buried.

Twelve figures.

Twelve keepers?

He walked past the clearing and down the slope toward the grove where glowing vines crept between boulders and flowers bloomed with magical pulses. His hand hovered near the scroll in his ring, but he didn't take it out yet.

He wasn't looking for another memory.

He was looking for where it might lead.

Following instinct, Argolaith pressed his palm to a nearby tree. A thin line of mana moved through his skin, humming low.

The cube beside him responded with a faint shimmer, sensing resonance.

Another glyph was nearby.

He moved between the trees, brushing moss, soil, and old bark. Birds fluttered overhead, shadows cast between the branches. He kept walking until he found it.

A stone slab covered in thick ivy.

He knelt and brushed the greenery away.

Etched beneath was a glyph—older than the one from before, but pulsing ever so faintly. Not with mana… but with memory.

He traced it gently, and the cube beside him flickered bright for the first time that morning.

The projection formed without his command.

It was weaker than before—like a thought barely remembered—but it showed a grove of thirteen trees arranged in a perfect circle, each one glowing in a different hue. At the center stood a pedestal, and on it rested a smaller cube, identical to his own.

Argolaith leaned closer.

"This cube… was always part of it," he whispered.

The trees in the vision shimmered—each shaped uniquely, as if bound to different magics. The colors swirled. One tree was silver-blue, another crimson-gold, one pure white.

He recognized the sensation from his own tree—his own lifeblood.

The vision showed a hand reaching for the cube on the pedestal, but the image broke before it touched.

It faded. Only silence remained.

Argolaith stood still, heart quickening.

There had been others who used this magic.

Not just users… but builders. Creators.

And the grove he saw… it wasn't in Elyrion.

At least, not yet.

He stepped back, thoughtful.

There might be another part of the realm. Or another realm entirely.

He'd need more clues. More glyphs.

More memory scrolls hidden beneath moss and silence.

The frogs hopped nearby, watching.

Argolaith crouched and chuckled. "You're more alert than some people I know."

He turned and walked back to the clearing. He'd write down what he saw, sketch the grove of thirteen trees, and start looking for signs that it existed elsewhere in Elyrion.

And he'd need to speak with Elder Faeryn.

If anyone could understand the vision—it was the one who studied astral echoes and the paths of memory in stars.

The leaves above rustled gently as Argolaith stepped away from the glowing fern he'd discovered. Its soft green hue dimmed as he moved on, as if it had recognized him and now went back to sleep. Elyrion felt unusually calm—like the air itself was watching.

He passed beneath a thick canopy where vines glowed faintly, their roots drawing mana from deep underground. As he walked, the terrain slowly shifted. What was once gentle rolling woodland became more rocky, almost like old foothills.

Argolaith stopped and pulled a folded map from his storage ring, though it was blank. Elyrion had never been charted, not even by him. He tapped the parchment, wondering if there was a way to have the cube copy what he saw and trace it for him.

The frogs in his realm were thriving. That thought returned to him unexpectedly. Some of them were still glowing faintly, and one even seemed to respond when he called to it earlier with just his thoughts. He smiled, deciding he would return soon to test a few theories.

For now, the road ahead was new.

The soft rumble of a distant waterfall met his ears. He followed it, weaving through glowing roots and ankle-deep moss, until he reached the edge of a narrow ravine. Water streamed from a crack in the stone wall opposite, catching light from the ambient mana in the air and shimmering like crystal.

He stood there for a long while, breathing in the stillness.

Then something shifted.

The light dimmed slightly. Not a threat, not a beast—but the realm responded to him again. The way the moss parted under his steps, the wind that gently circled him—like Elyrion knew he was its creator and welcomed his presence.

Argolaith moved forward, climbing carefully down into the ravine. Vines helped slow his descent. At the bottom, he scooped a handful of the clear water and tasted it. Cool, with a faint sweetness. It pulsed lightly with magic, harmless, but strong enough to fuel small life.

He took a vial from his ring and filled it, storing it for later study.

Farther down, he found a pool. At its edge were strange stones shaped like tiny petals, humming faintly. Argolaith sat on a flat rock beside it, letting the soft sounds of water calm him. Then he pulled out a notebook and wrote down everything he had seen so far.

He'd always loved exploration more than battle. Out here, in this place made from his magic and will, he didn't have to prove anything. He just had to listen.

The frogs, the glowing moss, the self-forming cliffs—there was more to Elyrion than he had intended. It felt alive, aware. And if that were true, what else might it be hiding?

For now, he would rest.

He leaned back and looked up through the jagged opening of the ravine. The stars in Elyrion's sky flickered gently, dimmer than those in the real world. But they were his stars.

And that meant something.