Sylvanor knelt at the roots of the Worldroot, chest heaving, fingers digging into the moss-slick bark as if to anchor himself to something—anything—real.
His body still thrummed with the echoes of communion. The green light had faded, but left behind a living resonance, as if a second heartbeat now pulsed beneath his skin. Every breath seemed louder, every sound sharper. The forest no longer felt like trees and wind—but like a presence with eyes, breath, and memory.
Visions flickered behind his eyes:Fire and thorns.A crown of bark.Cities in ash.
He pressed his palm once more to the Worldroot.
"Show me more," he whispered. "Show me what came before."
The tree answered—not with voice, but with memory.
And the past, ancient and waiting, unfolded.
Before Aurethia, before the Empire of Flame, before crowns and kingdoms—there was Oldhan.
A land untouched by iron and war. A people not yet drunk on conquest. In the heart of that early world stood a tribe that believed in not gods of sky or sun—but in Earthmother, the sleeping soul beneath soil and stone.
They were not builders of walls, but singers to the land.
And they planted a seed.
It was not large. It was not bright. But they gave it all they had: song, sacrifice, story. Every birth was celebrated at its base. Every death buried with roots in its name.
The seed grew.
And the forest changed.
From that seed rose the Worldroot Tree—known to the people as Vhal-Earun, the Blessing Root.
It was not a god. It was not a weapon. It was something else:
A mirror of belief.A cradle of balance.A living soul made of reverence.
Oldhan prospered.
Fields once barren erupted with golden grain. Rivers ran clear, their fish plentiful and unmarred by disease. Trees grew overnight, bearing fruits unknown to other lands. Even the animals changed—less afraid, more abundant. Herds returned. Predators learned balance.
Winter softened.Summers cooled.Storms passed with gentle rain instead of wrath.
It was not magic in the vulgar sense—it was harmony. A communion of people and land so pure, even time seemed to kneel.
Travelers came from distant tribes and stayed. Oldhan became more than a village—it became a sanctuary, a living hymn of what the world could be.
And at the heart of it stood the tree.
Vhal-Earun.The Blessing Root.The great gift from the Earthmother.
Beneath its boughs, children were named. Vows were spoken. Songs were given. And the land bloomed ever brighter.
But even in the purest soil, the first shadows always begin with awe.
The green flame of communion still danced faintly beneath Sylvanor's skin as he lay against the roots of the Worldroot, breath shallow, limbs trembling. The forest no longer seemed indifferent—it pulsed, alive, watching.
He pressed his hand once more to the bark, not with command, but with longing.
"Show me," he whispered. "Let me understand."
And the tree, ageless and waiting, obeyed.
The breath of the forest deepened.
And the world turned backward.
Long before Aurethia raised its golden banners, before the Empire was ever born, there thrived a civilization now erased from all maps: Oldhan.
Its people were not conquerors. They were kin to the soil, children of mist and rain.
They believed not in gods of war or flame, but in the Earthmother—the great slumbering spirit beneath all stone and root.
In devotion, they planted a single sacred seed, offering their songs, tears, and lifeblood in worship. That seed took root in silence.
And from it rose Vhal-Earun, the Worldroot Tree—a living covenant between people and earth.
It did not speak, but it listened. It did not rule, but it bloomed.
Its bark sang with sap that healed.Its canopy held birds unknown to any sky.And beneath its shadow, life flourished.
With Vhal-Earun thriving, the land responded.
Fields bore fruit in winter. Forests sprang forth in days. Water ran pure as glass. The wind became gentler, as if soothed by the tree's breath.
Creatures once thought mythic returned to bask in the abundance. Crops grew without toil. Storms bowed and changed their course.
Oldhan became a paradise—a miracle wrapped in green.
They named it "The Land of the First Bloom."Pilgrims came. Settlements grew. Hope flourished.
The tree was worshipped not as a god, but as a living partner in a world reborn.
But nothing thrives forever.
Not even blessings.
As generations passed, Oldhan's wonder turned wild.
The unchecked growth became chaos.
Vines, once gentle, now tore through homes and temples. Trees sprouted in hours, splitting stone and swallowing roads. Strange fruits brought illness. Flowers grew thorns sharp as blades.
The balance was lost.
And worse still—predators returned.
Drawn by the explosion of prey, creatures long thought extinct crept from the forgotten edges of the world. Chief among them:
Nightclaws.
Beasts of shadow and silence, with glowing eyes and flesh that knew no fear. They hunted until the land trembled beneath them.
And when the animals were gone, they turned to people.
Fear rotted the heart of Oldhan.
The people, once devoted, began to doubt. Murmurs spread like wildfire.
"The tree no longer protects.""It feeds the beasts.""It is not a blessing—it is a curse."
The priests—once guardians of Vhal-Earun—fractured. Some fell to madness. Others preached heresy, claiming the Worldroot was a parasite, feeding off their faith and bleeding the world dry.
Belief curdled into hatred.
Worship ceased.
And the tree… weakened.
Without love, it withered not in form, but in spirit. Its gifts turned violent. Its harmony became hunger. Its blessing twisted into something the world would come to fear:
The Cursed Forest.
Oldhan's fields died screaming, choked by roots that no longer obeyed.
Homes vanished beneath thickets of thorns. Statues of the Earthmother were shattered, buried in moss.
And in time, the people of Oldhan disappeared—devoured by the very abundance they had once praised.
Nothing remained but overgrowth, shadows, and the memory of ruin.
The Worldroot endured, but not as a god, nor as a guardian.
It endured as a grave.And as a witness.
Waiting for one who might listen again.
VII. Sylvanor's Realization
The memory released him like a breath finally exhaled.
Sylvanor collapsed to his knees, eyes wide with wonder and horror. He looked up at the vast trunk of the Worldroot—no longer cursed in his eyes, but grieving.
"You weren't always cursed…" he whispered, voice hoarse. "You were abandoned."
The wind stirred. Leaves trembled. And for the first time, the Worldroot spoke.
Not in thunder. Not in command.
But in a whisper of rustling leaves:
"All blessings turn to burdens… when left unloved."
The forest grew still.
Not peaceful. Not calm.
Still.
The birds no longer sang. Even the insects had fallen quiet. The roots beneath Sylvanor's feet curled as if tensing.
The bark around him creaked—not from age, but pressure.
And then, from the distant dark between trunks, came a sound.
A low, guttural growl.Not beast. Not echo.Something ancient. Something waking.
Something that had felt the Communion.
Something that now hunted the Lord of the Forest.
Sylvanor rose slowly, drawing breath like a blade.
The forest would no longer let him wander.
Now… he would be tested.