God’s Tree

The decoy wagon thundered down the road, its enchanted wheels kicking up clouds of dust as it tore away from the caravan.

The Hollowed took the bait.

Dozens of them screeched, their twisted bodies lurching away from the caravan to pursue the false prize. The black vines receded, shifting toward the runaway wagon like starving beasts chasing fresh prey.

But not all of them.

Some remained.

Some were not fooled.

Argolaith could still feel them watching.

Waiting.

They know.

"Move!" the caravan leader barked, spurring his warhorse forward. The remaining wagons surged ahead, their enchanted wheels absorbing the shocks of the ruined road with ease.

Malakar ran alongside them, his movements eerily smooth—effortless. His undead body showed no strain, no fatigue.

Argolaith kept pace, ignoring the burn in his muscles. His instincts screamed that something was still wrong.

Kaelred, still perched on horseback, clutched the saddle like his life depended on it. "Tell me we're done with the nightmare monsters for today!"

No one answered him.

Because they weren't sure.

For miles, they ran.

The Hollowed did not pursue.

Not directly.

But Argolaith could feel their presence. The road felt wrong—as if something was lurking just beyond sight, watching from the treetops, moving through the shadows between worlds.

Malakar noticed it, too.

"They are not gone," he murmured. "Merely waiting."

The caravan leader scowled. "Then we keep moving."

Kaelred exhaled. "That's fine by me. If I never see another one of those things again, it'll be too soon."

The road stretched ahead, empty and silent, save for the sound of hooves and running feet.

Then Argolaith spoke.

"What's in the chest?"

The question hung in the air.

The caravan leader didn't react immediately, but Argolaith saw the way his fingers tightened slightly on the reins of his horse.

Kaelred groaned. "Oh, here we go."

Malakar's violet eyes flickered. "It was clear during the battle that the Hollowed were not simply attacking at random."

The leader remained silent.

Malakar continued. "They were drawn to whatever you are transporting."

Kaelred raised a brow. "I mean, yeah. That was pretty obvious."

Argolaith narrowed his eyes. "So I'll ask again. What's in the chest?"

The leader sighed.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Something dangerous."

Kaelred scoffed. "Oh, fantastic. That's really specific."

The leader glanced at him. "Would you prefer I lie?"

Kaelred shrugged. "I'd prefer a nap and a hot meal, but here we are."

Argolaith was not amused.

"That thing almost cost you your entire caravan," he said, his tone sharp. "I don't care what you're transporting, but I do care if it's going to keep bringing things like the Hollowed after us."

The leader exhaled through his nose. "It won't."

Argolaith's golden eyes hardened. "How do you know?"

The leader didn't answer right away.

Then he said, "Because we're close."

Argolaith frowned. "Close to what?"

The leader turned toward the road ahead.

"Volcrest."

Kaelred blinked. "Wait. Already?"

The leader nodded. "At this pace, we'll be there by sunrise."

Argolaith frowned. That was faster than expected. Even running at full speed, he hadn't thought they'd reach the city this soon.

Malakar, however, was focused on something else.

"You believe the city will protect you."

The leader nodded once. "Yes."

Argolaith studied him. "From what?"

The leader's expression remained unreadable.

"From what happens next."

That was all he would say.

Argolaith could tell pushing further wouldn't work. Not yet.

But there was one thing he was sure of now.

Whatever was in that chest—

Whatever had drawn the Hollowed—

Volcrest was its final destination.

And once they got there—

Things were going to get much worse.

The city of Volcrest rose against the horizon like a beast of iron and stone.

Even from a distance, Argolaith could feel the weight of it—a city unlike any they had encountered before.

Massive black walls loomed over the surrounding land, reinforced with runic sigils that pulsed faintly in the predawn darkness. The towers stretched high, their spires adorned with flickering blue lanterns that gave the skyline an eerie glow.

The air here was different.

It wasn't just thick with moisture from the nearby river—it carried a faint charge. A sensation that something powerful was buried within this place.

Volcrest was not an ordinary city.

The warhorses did not slow as the caravan approached the gates. Even at full speed, their enchanted hooves barely seemed to strain against the ground.

Argolaith kept pace with ease, his breathing controlled, though he was keenly aware of how little rest they had taken in the last two days.

Kaelred, still half-slumped over the back of his borrowed horse, let out a weak groan. "If this city doesn't have an inn, I'm going to start screaming."

Malakar, as expected, looked exactly the same as when they had started. His skeletal form showed no sign of wear, his violet eyes as cold as ever.

The caravan leader had remained silent for the last leg of the journey, his expression unreadable.

But now—as the gates of Volcrest loomed closer—his grip on the reins tightened.

The gates of Volcrest were no mere wooden barriers.

They were massive constructs of dark metal, engraved with ancient sigils that pulsed with protective magic. Even before reaching them, Argolaith could see the faint shimmer of a defensive barrier woven across the entrance.

Standing at the gates were guards in black-and-gold armor, their faces hidden behind steel masks carved with runic symbols.

Their weapons were not just swords or spears—they carried enchanted halberds, their blades lined with the same pulsing energy that covered the city walls.

These were not ordinary sentries.

These were Wardens of Volcrest.

And they had already noticed the caravan.

The lead guard stepped forward, his mask glinting under the blue lanterns above. His voice was deep, commanding.

"State your cargo and your purpose."

The caravan leader brought his horse to a stop just before the barrier. His posture remained calm, but Argolaith could tell he was choosing his words carefully.

"We are expected."

The Wardens didn't react.

Their leader tilted his head slightly. "By whom?"

The caravan leader reached into his cloak and pulled free a small silver emblem marked with three overlapping circles.

The moment the Wardens saw it, the air changed.

They did not question him further.

The lead Warden simply turned and gestured.

A deep hum filled the air as the runic sigils in the gates shifted. The protective barrier split open, parting just enough to allow entry.

"Proceed," the Warden said.

No further questions.

No inspection of the wagons.

Just entry.

As the caravan rolled through the gates, Argolaith took in the sight of Volcrest for the first time.

The streets were narrow and winding, lined with dark-stone buildings that rose high on either side. Bridges and walkways crisscrossed overhead, connecting the upper levels of the city like a sprawling web.

The lanterns here did not burn with ordinary fire. Instead, they flickered with a blue magical glow, casting unnatural shadows across the alleys.

Even at this early hour, the city was awake.

People moved through the streets—many in hooded cloaks, others in armor similar to the Wardens. Traders unloaded supplies, their carts filled with materials that Argolaith didn't recognize.

There was an energy here—a feeling that secrets were everywhere.

And beneath it all, something else.

A presence.

A pulse.

Argolaith frowned. He couldn't explain it, but it felt as if something deep within the city was alive.