Chapter 16 – Roots, Mist, and the Vow of Silence
That night, the dark forest slept restlessly.
I could feel it in the roots beneath my feet, in the way the shadows stretched longer than usual, in the subtle tremor that hung in the air like an unspoken question. So much had changed so quickly. Karidevan was gone. The dark forest stirred. The world beyond the forest had shifted on its axis.
And yet, here I was small, breathing, alive.
I retreated into myself.
Not from responsibility, but towards the only place that demanded nothing of me.
The Mother Tree.
The moment my consciousness touched its presence, a warmth enveloped me. Not heat but comfort. Like resting my head against something ancient, something infinitely patient. Its roots gently wrapped around my awareness, steadying the turmoil within me.
Child..
Its voice was not a sound. It was a vibration. It filled the spaces between my thoughts.
"You are worried," I replied softly, no longer afraid to speak here. "Everyone is looking at me. They want answers. They want guidance. They want strength."
The Mother Tree did not answer immediately.
It never hurried.
You are still growing, it finally said. Roots do not go deep because they are forced to. They do so because they are allowed to.
In my inner space, I folded my knees and sat on the ground. The serpent symbol on my left hand pulsed faintly, as if reminding me of its presence.
"They call it recognition," I said. "They say the water serpent has accepted me. They say that symbol represents power."
The Mother Tree's presence tightened not with anger, but with concern.
"That symbol is not power," it corrected gently. "It is protection."
I looked at my hand.
"Protection from what?"
"From the attention you are not ready to bear."
Before I could reply, the air grew heavy.
Darkness folded in, soft and vast. The Mist Mother arrived not descending or appearing, but simply being there. Her presence was heavier than the forest itself, yet strangely comforting, like being submerged in deep water.
"You have tasted recognition too quickly," she said quietly. "That is why this world feels so loud."
"I didn't ask for it," I replied, my frustration showing. "I wanted to see everything clearly. I needed balance."
"You have received a path," she replied. "Not a throne."
I exhaled slowly.
"They are already talking about enemies. Fire. Empires. Control." My voice trembled despite my efforts. "They want me to stand before all of this."
The Mist Mother's darkness shifted, drawing closer not threateningly, but resolutely.
"Listen carefully, unbalanced child," she said. "Politics is noise. Spiritual growth is the truth."
The Mother Tree echoed her words.
"You are not yet worthy to bear the world," it said. "If you engage in its struggles now, your roots will break."
"But Karidevan" I began. The Mist Mother interrupted me, her voice sharp for the first time.
"Karadevan chose that burden himself," she said. "You are not him."
Silence fell.
It wasn't emptiness.
Understanding.
That's when I realized it not the danger from enemies, but the danger from expectations. The danger of being shaped too quickly by forces that cared not whether I survived, but only whether I was useful.
"The serpent symbol," I said softly. "It won't make me a ruler."
"No," the Mist Mother replied. "It makes you untouchable."
She focused her awareness on the symbol.
"It will prevent assassination. Prevent misfortune. Prevent premature interference. But it will not make you strong."
The roots of the Mother Tree tightened reassuringly.
Strength must come from growth, it said. Not from reaction.
"What about the Grey World?" I asked softly. "What about my vision?"
The Mist Mother's presence softened.
"The pull of your darkness is vast," she said. "Too vast. Without water, it will render you inert."
"I am trying," I said. "I worship the sea. I meditate. I wait."
"That is why you are still alive," she replied. "But now, you must commit yourself fully."
The Mother Tree's voice resonated, laced with affection.
The sea is not merely a force of attraction.
Yes, it said. It is accepting the movement. Accepting the uncertainty. Accepting the loss.
I swallowed.
"What should I do?"
The Mist Mother's answer came immediately. "Stop looking at the world," she said. "Go inward."
I frowned. "That sounds like retreating."
"It is not," the Mother Tree replied. "It is a form of cultivation."
Then they surrounded me not in a way that felt like capture or overwhelming—but rather, like two hands cupping a delicate flame, they enveloped me.
"You must deepen your spirituality," the Mother Tree said. "Stillness is your anchor."
"And you must move further along the lotus path," the Mist Mother added. "Not towards dominance. Not towards becoming the darkness, but towards understanding the darkness."
"The sea?" I asked.
The Mist Mother's voice changed it sounded ancient and reverent.
"The sea is your balance," she said. "You will not conquer it. You will belong to it."
Suddenly, I felt a sharp, unexpected emotion rise within me.
"Will I lose myself?" I asked. "If I go too deep… will I disappear?"
The Mother Tree's answer came immediately, and there was an intensity in its gentleness.
"Never," it said. "As long as…"
Remember why you are growing.
Her presence pressed against me like an embrace.
"You were not born to disappear," she continued. "You were born to connect."
The Mist Mother looked at me in silence for a moment. Then, she spoke in a softer voice than before.
"Few are those who receive love to the point of being warned," she said. "Fewer still are those who are protected as they grow."
And then I understood.
This is love.
Not indulgence.
Not control.
But steadfastness.
"What should I do when they push me towards power?" I asked.
The Mother Tree answered simply.
Grow.
"When the world demands answers?" I pressed.
The Mist Mother replied.
"Be silent."
"And when danger comes?"
Both voices answered as one.
Cultivate.
And then something settled within me.
Not a resolve born of anger or fear.
But clarity.
I rose not in body, but in resolveand bowed deeply, not to power, but to care.
"I will not enter their wars," I said. "I will not chase after approval. I will not confuse safety with strength."
The mark on my hand pulsed once, then faded.
"I will cultivate," I continued. "Spirituality. The way of the lotus. The pull of the sea."
The Mother Tree murmured softly.
The Mist Mother's darkness was silent.
"And until I can see the world completely," I finished, "I will not try to change it."
That was my vow.
Unspoken aloud.
Without witnesses.
But etched into my heart.
The forest sighed.
The mist lifted.
And, for the first time since Karadevan's death, the dark forest rested if only for a moment.
Because somewhere, beneath the roots and shadows, a child had chosen growth over fire.