God’s Tree

Lysara's expression turned grim as she scanned the surrounding forest, her senses sharpening with the stillness that preceded a storm.

The once peaceful, whispering breeze stilled, and the distant calls of birds and rustling leaves faded into a tense silence. Her voice, when it came, was low and urgent.

"Be on your guard. The mountain not only holds ancient power—it attracts those who seek to exploit it."

Argolaith's pulse quickened. He had learned to trust Lysara's instincts, for they had kept them safe through many perils.

He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, feeling the cool steel beneath his hand, and his gaze shifted to the shadows that flitted just beyond the edge of their campfire's glow.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

They quickened their pace, moving with deliberate caution. The soft crunch of their boots against the earth seemed louder now, as though the very air had thickened in response to the mounting tension.

Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the ground itself were growing more resistant, reluctant to let them pass.

Argolaith's eyes narrowed, straining to pierce the darkened edges of the forest.

The first sign came in the form of a faint rustling, too deliberate to be the wind. Then, a deep growl echoed from the shadows, sending a chill down Argolaith's spine.

His hand instinctively tightened around the sword's hilt. The sound grew closer, closer still, until it became a chorus—a dozen low, throaty growls that reverberated in his chest.

Lysara's voice was sharp and commanding as she looked to him, her face pale under the moonlight but her eyes filled with unshakable resolve.

"Ready yourself. This is no mere beast of the woods."

The forest was alive with movement now. The shadows lengthened and shifted, and Argolaith could feel the air grow thick with malice, as if the very trees themselves were watching.

The ground seemed to pulse beneath their feet, the magic of the mountain waking in response to the approaching threat.

From the gloom emerged a pack of spectral wolves, their forms translucent like mist but with eyes that burned with a fierce, unnatural glow.

Their bodies flickered in and out of existence, half-formed, as though the very act of their being here was a transgression of the natural order.

Their growls were like whispers in the wind, but every word was laden with hatred. The wolves' eyes locked onto Argolaith and Lysara, their forms rippling as they moved forward with a speed that defied the eye.

"Do not falter," Lysara said, her voice low but steady.

Her hands, poised with deadly grace, readied her blade.

"They are guardians, creatures bound to protect the secrets of the mountain. But they are not invincible."

Argolaith met her gaze with determination. The glow of his sword flickered briefly, but he was no longer the boy who had set out from Seminah.

The battles, the trials, the endless days of trudging through treacherous terrain had shaped him. In that moment, he felt a surge of purpose. "Whatever comes, we face it together."

With a roar that seemed to shake the very trees, the spectral wolves lunged.

Argolaith's sword met the first one mid-air, the crackle of magic and steel blending as the wolf's form flickered and shuddered.

The strike passed through it as though it were made of mist, but it solidified for just a fraction of a second, allowing Argolaith to land a blow that severed its ethereal form.

It let out a hiss, dissolving into a vapor of swirling shadows that dissipated into the night.

The wolves did not relent. They circled around him and Lysara, their glowing eyes narrowing with predatory focus.

A second wolf lunged from the side, its claws snapping through the air, aiming for Argolaith's throat.

He sidestepped just in time, his blade slashing upward in a vicious arc, catching the creature across the ribs.

The wolf recoiled, momentarily corporeal before evaporating back into the fog.

Lysara moved like a shadow, fluid and graceful. She parried a vicious bite aimed at her side with a precise strike, her sword dancing through the air in a blur of silver.

She moved so fast that the wolves seemed to falter, disoriented by the swiftness of her strikes.

The blade in her hand hummed with magic, a faint glow pulsing with every move she made.

"Keep your focus, Argolaith!" she called, her voice ringing through the chaos.

She spun to face a wolf whose jaws had closed around her cloak, and with a fluid motion, she cleaved the beast in two.

"They are but guardians of the old magic. Defeat them, and you prove your worth."

Argolaith's heart hammered in his chest. The wolves were relentless, but Lysara was right.

They were not just beasts; they were manifestations of the mountain's ancient magic, creatures born of its power.

He could feel the weight of that power pressing against him, trying to drag him down, to make him falter. But he wouldn't. Not now. Not when he was so close.

A howl pierced the air, and the remaining wolves charged. Argolaith's muscles burned with fatigue, but the fire of the mountain's magic coursed through him.

He spun and cut with precision, his sword finding its mark again and again. Each blow sent another wolf dissipating into a wisp of smoke and shadow, but they came faster than he could strike them down.

Lysara's voice rang out above the din. "Remember, Argolaith, they are bound by the mountain's will, but their strength is not endless. You can break them, just as you have broken the trials before."

Argolaith's sword cleaved the air once more, his body moving on instinct. A wolf lunged from the left, its jaws wide, but he sidestepped and plunged his blade deep into its side.

It screeched, its form flickering and sparking with magic, before it exploded into a cloud of mist. The others faltered, their charge slowing as if unsure of their own existence.

"Lysara!" Argolaith shouted, breathless, sweat beading on his brow. "There's too many of them. We can't—"

Before he could finish, Lysara was beside him, her eyes alight with purpose. "We will defeat them," she said, her voice calm amidst the chaos.

She raised her sword high, and the blade hummed with an energy that seemed to resonate with the mountain itself. "Together."

In a synchronized motion, they launched themselves into the fray. Lysara moved with an elegance that made her appear almost untouchable, her blade flashing in the dim light.

Argolaith, though not as swift, fought with an intensity born of determination.

The spectral wolves pressed in on all sides, but with each blow they struck, their forms became weaker, flickering more frequently as their power began to wane.

With a final roar, Argolaith struck the last of the wolves, his sword sinking into its chest.

The creature howled in pain, its body quaking before it collapsed into a puff of dissipating mist. Silence fell, broken only by the sound of their heavy breathing.

Argolaith stood in the clearing, his heart racing. His body ached with the strain of the fight, his muscles screaming in protest, but he felt a strange exhilaration course through him. He had survived. They had survived.

"That… was close," he gasped, wiping a streak of blood from his forehead. His voice was rough with exhaustion, the adrenaline still pumping in his veins.

"I almost—" He couldn't finish the thought. The fear of being overwhelmed by the pack was too fresh, too raw.

He had felt their jaws closing around him, heard the howls echoing in his ears.

Lysara offered him a reassuring smile, though her face was drawn with the toll of the battle.

"You fought well, Argolaith. Today, you proved that you are ready for what lies ahead."

Her voice softened. "The mountain will test you further, but you have the strength to overcome it."

Her words settled over him like a balm. He nodded, though his throat felt tight. He wasn't sure if he was ready for whatever trials lay ahead, but he knew one thing for certain—he would face them.

He would not let fear consume him, not now, not when he was so close.

Their journey continued as the mountain loomed ever larger before them. The silhouette of its towering peak seemed to grow more imposing with each step.

The forest, once thick with trees, slowly gave way to craggy foothills, and the air grew colder, thinner.

Every step was more labored than the last, and the path became steeper and more treacherous as they ascended.

Argolaith's body ached from the exertion, the wounds from the battle still stinging, but he pressed on. His resolve was steel. The mountain was a test, yes, but it was one he had to pass. His destiny lay at the summit.

At night, when they camped beneath a canopy of stars, Argolaith would sit by the fire, his journal resting in his lap.

He wrote of their struggles, their triumphs, and the wonders they encountered along the way.

He wrote of the wolves, the magic of the mountain, and the lessons learned in the heat of battle.

In those quiet moments, he allowed himself to reflect on how far he had come, how much he had changed since he first set foot on this journey.