God’s Tree

Kaelred stood in the courtyard as the bell rang, a paper schedule folded neatly in his hand. He glanced over it, then to the wide stone path lined with students moving between towers and lecture halls. His sharp gold eyes narrowed with curiosity as he took his first real steps into the life of a student.

The combat class for daggers was first. Held in an open arena with a half-dome of magical shielding above, the instructor, a lean veteran with scar-slashed leather armor, motioned for the students to form pairs. Kaelred, unpartnered, was called forward.

The instructor raised an eyebrow at Kaelred's weapons—twin daggers of dark steel, sheathed on each hip. "Let's see what kind of fighting style you've got, newblood."

Kaelred smiled without humor. "You'll see."

When the mock duel began, he didn't lunge or slash like the others. He danced—low, fast, unpredictable. His style was erratic, but controlled, with faint bursts of movement that left his opponent spinning to keep up. The instructor gave no praise when it ended, just a nod of approval and a curt, "You'll do."

After that came rune enchantment. The classroom was lit by suspended rune orbs that shimmered with different glyphs. Kaelred found it more difficult than he expected—his symbols were sloppy, lacking the patience needed. Still, he listened carefully, watching how others traced precise patterns into enchanted ink.

In the language class, he was silent, taking notes with perfect posture. The instructor introduced them to draconic root scripts and old pact tongues. Kaelred was unfamiliar with most of it, but he understood the value.

Next was his specialized magic class—nature and gravity. He didn't speak much, but when asked to perform a basic manipulation of gravity, Kaelred held out his hand and gently pressed a small rock into the floor until it cracked. The instructor watched closely.

"You've got potential," she said, "but potential's only useful if it's tested."

Tactical training followed. The instructor placed small enchanted figurines across a battlefield map. Students were given different scenarios to solve using traps, misdirection, or head-on tactics. Kaelred excelled here, suggesting risky but effective ambush plans and flanking maneuvers. His peers were surprised.

Smithing was last. The forge was hot, and the scent of heated metal lingered in the air. Kaelred listened to the blacksmith—a wide-shouldered dwarf woman with arms like hammers—who explained how to heat, shape, and temper steel. He didn't get to forge yet, but his interest was piqued.

By the end of the day, Kaelred was exhausted. His new dorm was quiet. His roommate hadn't returned yet, so he collapsed onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. He thought of Argolaith—but knew better than to expect a reunion so soon.

Far away, in Elyrion, Argolaith sat at his outdoor table, scribbling new sketches into his notebook. The frogs hopped and swam nearby. One of them croaked curiously as Argolaith stood up and rolled his sleeves.

He walked over to the tree-stump workbench he'd made near the cabin. On it lay the chunk of ore he'd taken from the underground sanctuary, now carved into a rough shape. Next to it sat his tools—hammers, files, chisels—everything non-magical.

"I'll forge it by hand," he muttered. "Magic will come later."

He heated the ore carefully using firewood and bellows, not a spell. When it glowed, he tried hammering it into a small blade, maybe a knife or a component. But it cracked. Shards scattered, and smoke hissed into the air.

Argolaith sighed.

He swept the pieces aside and grabbed another smaller piece. Again, he tried—heating, shaping, filing. Again, it warped or broke. He kept trying. Failure didn't bother him, but each one taught him something new.

He didn't stop until the sky above Elyrion shifted into stars.

Covered in soot and sweat, Argolaith leaned back in his chair. His muscles ached, but a small smile tugged at his lips. The knife still wasn't right—but it was closer. He wasn't forging a weapon.

He was forging a part of himself.

Kaelred tossed his coat on the wooden bedframe and sat on the edge of the mattress. The dorm room wasn't much—simple stone walls, a shared closet, and two beds—but it was his now.

His roommate hadn't got back yet, so the space was quiet. He used the silence to think over the whirlwind of his first day.

The combat class had been first. The instructor was a sharp-eyed woman named Instructor Thalya, and she wasted no time. Her first words had been: "If you rely on strength alone, you're already dead."

They were grouped into pairs and told to disarm one another using only small weapons. Kaelred was handed a dull dagger. His opponent used brute force—Kaelred didn't.

He twisted under the taller student's attack, feinted low, and jabbed at his wrist. The dagger clattered to the floor, and Kaelred stood, calm and breathing evenly.

Thalya raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. You're not from around here, are you?"

Next came rune enchantment. The room was filled with floating chalkboards, and runes shimmered faintly across the instructor's robe. They were told to carve a simple stability rune onto a pebble without it cracking.

Kaelred's lines were clean, but the stone vibrated, then exploded in his hand with a puff of harmless light. Around him, students groaned at similar failures.

The instructor smiled. "Good. That means you're all learning where the lines can't cross. Magic is as much restraint as it is power."

In language class, the instructor was an old woman who demanded they repeat ancient dialects aloud. Kaelred's tongue stumbled at first, but by the end of the session, his voice moved smoother.

He sat through tactical training next, where the class played out war simulations on floating maps. Kaelred remained quiet until the instructor asked him to make a decision during a mock ambush.

He rerouted supply lines and baited the enemy force into a pincer trap. The instructor gave him a rare nod of approval. "Clever."

Nature and gravity magic were grouped into one strange hybrid class. They worked with stone and sap, roots and levitation, and Kaelred quickly learned that control over both at once was a balancing act—he accidentally made a floating bush that refused to come down.

By the time smithing came around, he was exhausted. The forges blazed, hammers rang, and sparks flew. They were told to shape a basic ingot using only their magic to keep it steady.

Kaelred's hammer strikes were uneven, but his form improved with each hit. The metal glowed warmly by the time the class ended.

He returned to his dorm tired, but satisfied. It wasn't easy—but he liked that.

Meanwhile, deep in Elyrion, Argolaith stood beside a workbench he had made near the cabin. The trees swayed quietly around him, frogs croaking in the distance. His focus was on the strange ore.

He had failed earlier using normal methods. The metal had warped, cracked, and refused to hold form.

This time, he tried to approach it differently.

He summoned a cube—not to attack or defend—but to analyze. It hovered over the ore, strands of mana weaving out like gentle tendrils. They wrapped around the metal and pulsed slowly.

Argolaith took a deep breath and began working again, using a small enchanted hammer he had made last year. The moment the hammer touched the ore, the cube adjusted, feeding a slow trickle of mana into the alloy.

The first tap rang differently. Not perfect—but not a failure.

He adjusted his grip, tried again. The shape held.

Night fell over Elyrion as he continued, failing, adjusting, refining—letting patience become the fire that guided his hands.