God’s Tree

The tea had cooled, but its strange fragrance still lingered in the air—herbal, crisp, tinged with something floral that no ordinary flower could match.

Athos sat back in his chair, his cup resting beside a half-unrolled scroll, while Argolaith stood by the arched window, watching the morning sunlight break over the rooftops of Seminah.

Kaelred had wandered off somewhere between the second cup and a comment about "books not biting back." Malakar lingered near the entrance, flipping through a tome bound in shadow-threaded vellum, silent and watchful as always.

Thae'Zirak had curled up on the windowsill like a cat, tail swaying lazily as he observed the passing clouds.

Only Argolaith and Athos remained locked in a silence that spoke far louder than any conversation.

Finally, Argolaith broke it.

"I know now," he said. "That I wasn't just left here by chance. That you knew something… about me. About what I was."

Athos didn't look surprised.

He never did.

"I knew very little," he said gently. "But sometimes, a little knowledge in the right hands is enough to protect a life."

Argolaith turned to him. "You said you found me."

"I did."

"And you took care of me, gave me a place here—but you never told me why."

Athos reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a small wooden box, no larger than a folded book. He placed it gently on the table and opened it.

Inside were three items:

A faded strip of white cloth embroidered with a sigil neither Argolaith nor Malakar recognized.

A broken golden quill, dulled with age.

And a single page—torn, half-burned, its script incomplete.

Athos picked up the page carefully.

"This was in the basket with you. Wrapped with the cloth. The sigil… it's not of this realm. I asked scholars. Alchemists. Even a few wandering spellcasters."

He set the page down in front of Argolaith.

"They all told me the same thing: upper realm origin. Possibly divine."

Argolaith traced the burned edge of the page with one finger. The script was looping, graceful—too perfect to be human. The ink shimmered slightly under the sunlight. A few words stood out in a language he didn't recognize but understood instinctively:

"…when the third awakens, guide him not by fate, but by memory…"

He looked up. "So they left me here. Whoever they were."

Athos nodded. "I believe so. But I also believe it wasn't abandonment. It was protection."

Argolaith's gaze was distant now. "And the god of knowledge? Was he always watching?"

Athos hesitated—just for a moment.

Then he said, "The day I found you, a whisper came from the wind. I was the only one who heard it. It said: Guard what you do not understand. You will not be alone."

Malakar looked up from his book, eyes faintly glowing. "A divine decree."

Athos nodded. "I didn't know it was the god of knowledge at the time. But who else watches, always in silence?"

Argolaith returned to the window, holding the page lightly between his fingers.

"And you never searched for them? My parents?"

"I didn't need to," Athos said. "Because they didn't leave you behind… they left you forward."

Silence filled the room again. Not heavy. Not sorrowful.

Just full of truth.

Argolaith folded the page gently and placed it into a satchel at his side. "Thank you. For protecting me when you didn't have to."

Athos smiled. "It was never about obligation. It was about belief."

Argolaith stepped back toward the table. "When I leave again… it'll be for the fourth tree. And eventually, for whatever's at the end of this path."

Athos reached across the table and placed the old, broken quill into his hand.

"Then take this," he said. "You'll know when to use it."

Argolaith took it carefully, nodding once.

The sun was already high when Argolaith left the library.

He carried no sword, no armor, and for once, no urgency. The broken golden quill rested in a pouch near his chest, next to the page and the old sigil-cloth from the box. Kaelred had remained behind, half-buried in a chair with a book he swore he wasn't reading. Malakar had drifted into the town's chapel, curious about the architecture and likely dissecting the energy wards etched into its foundation. Thae'Zirak had vanished into the sky in his full form, saying he wanted to "taste the wind."

Argolaith didn't ask where Naruul had gone.

He could feel the Saint Beast near—in the shadows, just out of sight, silent but always watching.

His feet carried him to the forest's edge. The borderland between Seminah and the sprawling wilderness beyond, where the Forsaken Forest once began to whisper into the minds of children foolish enough to stray too far.

This was where he had learned how to track game.

How to listen.

How to be alone.

And now, years later, it greeted him not as a boy…

…but as something more.

The trail was thin but still visible—barely there between low shrubs and hanging moss. Roots he remembered tripping on were still there, older now, thicker. Stones once too heavy to lift as a child now looked laughably small.

He passed a fallen log where he used to sit and eat stale bread, watching squirrels dart through the underbrush like spirits too fast to follow. A small pond reflected the sunlight through shifting leaves, its surface still enough to mirror the sky.

Argolaith crouched beside it and dipped his hand into the water.

Cold. Clean.

He stared at his reflection.

Blue eyes.

Calm, but distant.

Eyes that had stared into the abyss and walked away.

Eyes that remembered too much.

"Do you know who you are yet?" came a voice behind him.

He didn't flinch.

He didn't even turn.

"I'm beginning to."

A figure stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

They wore a cloak made of stitched forest leaves, their face hidden by a hood darker than shadow. No scent. No breath. But the earth bent ever so slightly beneath their feet—like it knew them.

"You walk as though you've earned the right," the figure said.

Argolaith stood.

"I've passed three trees. Faced beasts, illusions, death, and worse. And I still carry my name."

The figure tilted its head. "That is not enough."

"No," Argolaith said. "But it's mine."

They didn't fight.

There were no weapons drawn.

But something passed between them—like two stones grinding slowly in the riverbed, testing for weakness. The figure stepped forward once more, then reached into their cloak and withdrew a single object.

A seed.

It pulsed faintly with inner light. Not divine. Not cursed. Something older.

Argolaith took it without speaking.

The figure said nothing more.

Then vanished.

Not in a burst of magic or smoke—just gone, as if the forest had reabsorbed it, as if they were never there at all.

Argolaith stared down at the seed.

It was cold.

And yet…

It felt like it had been waiting for him.

By the time he returned to the cabin, the sun was beginning to set. Orange light bled across the sky in gentle streaks, casting long shadows over the fields behind town.

Kaelred was sitting on the porch, half-asleep with a book resting on his face.

He stirred as Argolaith stepped up. "So? Forest try to eat you again?"

"No," Argolaith said quietly. "Just reminded me that it remembers."

He held up the seed.

Kaelred blinked. "Did… did you plant something while you were out there?"

Argolaith smiled faintly. "Not yet."

He stepped inside, the seed now cradled in his palm.

Something had changed in the woods.

Something was watching, not from malice—but expectation.

And when he left Seminah, he knew it would follow him.