God’s Tree

The forest had changed.

Its silence no longer felt ominous, nor did the trees seem to bend with suspicion. Instead, they stood tall and open, as if recognizing Argolaith's passage not with resistance, but with quiet acknowledgment. He had passed two trials. The third tree had begun to call.

And between that call and its final challenge, there was distance.

Seven days of it.

They moved on foot now, weaving through deep forest paths and over quiet hills veined with frostroot and lightmoss. Thae'Zirak offered to fly them again, but the forest's unseen winds pushed against his wings—a sign, Malakar had said, that the trials required Argolaith to walk.

To feel the land beneath his feet.

To let the tree watch his approach.

And so they walked.

By the fifth night, they reached a break in the trees where stone pillars jutted from the earth like broken ribs. The sky overhead was starless, but the air was calm, and the land stretched far and open in all directions.

Argolaith stopped there, glancing up at the stars he could not see, and set down his pack.

Kaelred blinked. "We stopping here?"

"We are," Argolaith said. "We've walked far enough. The third trial is near, and we're not facing it hungry."

Kaelred's eyes lit up. "Wait. You're cooking?"

Malakar raised a bony brow. "He does more than cook. He crafts."

Argolaith smiled faintly and set his satchel down near a small fire pit he quickly dug out. Then, from his storage ring, he began to draw out the ingredients.

A slab of war beast shoulder, marbled with glowing threads of deep blue mana-rich muscle. It had been hunted two days prior.

The meat crackled faintly as he laid it down, almost as if it resisted being cooked—too proud to surrender easily.

Next came a collection of herbs he had foraged along their path:

Whisperleaf, which numbed pain when boiled, but brought out intense flavors when seared alongside fats. Cinderroot bulbs, which radiated slow, spicy heat when shaved thin and folded into broths. Vermillion bloom petals, soft and sharp, which released a calming aroma when dried and toasted. And Skyvein mushrooms, ghostly pale fungi that shimmered faintly under moonlight and boosted magical circulation when digested.

He worked quickly, methodically.

The war beast meat was sliced into thick medallions, scored with his dagger, then rubbed with crushed whisperleaf and cinderroot shavings.

The fire pit, fed with a mix of normal wood and emberthorn branches, flared to life, burning low and steady with a golden-red heat.

Argolaith placed the meat on a flat pan of seared stone—one he'd kept from the ruins near his first trial. It retained heat evenly and gave the meat a faint mineral richness.

The Skyvein mushrooms were diced thin and dropped into a small clay pot of simmering broth, which he made from a base of dried marrow and forest salt. He added a pinch of sunspice powder and two drops of a vine resin that added sweetness when cooked slowly.

While the meat sizzled and the broth boiled, he ground the vermillion petals into powder, then toasted them over open flame, letting their aroma rise and calm the mind.

Kaelred, drawn to the scent, sat cross-legged nearby and stared in open awe. "If this is your pre-trial meal, what would you make for the gods?"

Argolaith grinned. "Something with a bit more kick."

Thae'Zirak, too large for the circle, lay stretched in the clearing's edge, his eyes half-lidded. "This smells finer than the golden banquets of the deep realms. You do your people honor, Argolaith of Seminah."

Argolaith's hands stilled for a moment.

Seminah.

That quiet town. That lonely cabin at the edge of the Forsaken Forest. He had cooked over embers there too—but with scraps, not delicacies. With weeds and roots, not mana-rich beast meat or herbs that would sell for millions.

Now, he cooked for those who followed him.

And the thought didn't burden him.

It grounded him.

He plated the food on wide leaves from a sunflare tree—broad, golden-veined, slightly bitter and edible if warmed. Each person received two medallions of meat, seared to a perfect crust, juices pooling beneath them, and a ladle of glowing mushroom broth steeped with petal powder and crimson oil.

Kaelred took one bite and let out an involuntary groan. "I'm sorry. This is better than anything I've ever eaten in my life."

Malakar dipped his skeletal fingers delicately into the broth. "A rare creation. Fortifies the body and opens the magical channels. You've made a combat elixir into a meal."

Argolaith ate in silence, watching the others.

The meal wasn't just food.

It was ritual.

A quiet pause before the storm.

They walked again the next morning. The trail narrowed, bending around ridges and cliffs that pulsed faintly with old magic. The air grew heavier. Not with heat or pressure—but with expectation.

Argolaith could feel it now—close.

The last trial.

It waited somewhere just beyond the rise.

Not hidden. Not disguised.

Just patient.

And as the seventh day bled toward evening, the land ahead shimmered with a strange golden mist.

He took one last breath of open air—

And stepped forward.

The golden mist thickened with every step.

Argolaith could feel it pressing against his skin—not heavy, not cold, but curious, like something ancient was watching him from within it, measuring each footfall, listening to the way his breath moved through the trees.

By the time he stepped beyond the final ridge, the mist had become a wall, swirling in slow spirals like the breath of a sleeping beast. His boots touched ground, but it felt distant—like walking on the memory of earth rather than the thing itself.

And then—

The world shimmered.

Not with sound. Not with light. With shift.

His companions vanished.

The forest dissolved.

And Argolaith was somewhere else.

The air here was still and vast.

He stood in the center of a boundless plain, lit by a sky with no sun. The horizon stretched in every direction, but the air was tinted a soft silver-gold, shimmering faintly like dreamlight.

He turned slowly, alert.

The ground beneath him was white stone veined with glowing green roots. Strange trees stood at irregular intervals—some tall and blooming with leaves of flame, others crystalline and still, bearing fruits that pulsed like hearts. They grew side by side, impossible neighbors.

Scattered across the plain were weapons.

Not discarded—not broken. Displayed. Resting on pedestals or balanced across smooth stones. Mythical blades, axes, spears, and bows—each of them radiating power. Some hummed. Others burned. One, a dark glaive, even seemed to pulse in time with Argolaith's own heartbeat.

And nestled between these instruments of death were plants. Herbs, roots, mushrooms, blossoms—all perfect. Each one rare. Many impossible. He recognized several from Athos' library—legendary flora thought to be extinct or even imaginary.

The Field of Offerings, he realized.

A place that presents you with what you most desire.

The final trial.