The chamber beneath the Glass Tree pulsed with ancient, silent power. Vines coiled through stone like veins, and luminous blossoms glowed along the ceiling—guiding Jareth deeper into the forgotten sanctum. At the end of the passage, a vast circular hall revealed itself, lined with ethereal thrones made of silverwood and starlight. Twelve of them, each occupied by a ghostly figure—cloaked in regal robes, crowned in silver, their forms half-shadow, half-light.
The spirits of the ancient Elven Kings and Queens.
They did not speak at first.
Jareth stood tall, his breath steady but heart pulsing with unease.
Finally, the air trembled with their presence, and one voice echoed through the chamber, like wind through hollow mountains.
"You are not of our blood, not born of Sylvaranthe's grace. Why do you come, mortal?"
Jareth bowed slightly, respectful but unyielding. "To bring back what was lost. To restore the Holy Tree. To reclaim this land."
The spirits regarded him with silence—until another spoke, this one sharper, laced with judgment.
"We see fire in you—rage, grief... but where is your purity?"
"We see strength. Yet strength without balance becomes corruption. Tell us—do you understand sacrifice? Do you truly know pain? Have you learned honesty? Loyalty?"
Jareth firmly answers "Yes. I've seen more than you can imagine—in this world and the one before. If what I feel now is your truth... then test me. I won't run from it."
The trial commenced, haunted by the last whispered words of the spirits.
"So you shall be tested".
The light shifted. The world twisted. Jareth's vision blurred.
Suddenly—he stood not in the chamber, but in the flickering fluorescent lights of a hospital corridor.
Eight years old again.
His tiny hand was held tightly by a nurse, dragging him through the ward. His mother's room—sterile, pale, her frail body barely alive.
He remembered the way her eyes softened the moment she saw him. How she whispered his name, voice cracking like fragile glass. How her fingers brushed his cheek one last time… then fell limp.
The machine beeped.
Flatline.
And just like that—he was alone.
No father. A soldier, killed before he was born in a war halfway across the globe. No relatives willing to take him in. From that day forward, Jareth drifted from orphanage to orphanage. A child passed between hands like a burden.
Each place he landed was supposed to be a "fresh start" — a lie wrapped in a smile.
The caretakers called him difficult. The other children saw him as an easy target. Too quiet. Too alone. Too... different. They mocked him for not crying when others would, for how he stared too long at the stars, for asking questions no one had answers to.
He was shoved into lockers, had his few possessions stolen or broken, and more than once went to bed with bruises and no dinner.
But what hurt more than the fists were the lies.
He tried to make friends—desperately. Reached out, shared what little he had, trusted too easily.
And every time, they turned on him.
One boy he had defended in a fight turned around and planted stolen cash in Jareth's bunk. Another pretended to care—only to humiliate him in front of the others with a cruel trick. The adults never listened. They only saw a "troubled boy" who kept "inviting trouble."
Even in school, it was the same. Whispers behind his back. Smirks during lunch. Teachers who thought he wasn't worth the effort.
He grew up learning not to expect help. Not to expect fairness. That trust was a luxury for those born into safety—and he was not one of them.
But through it all—he never turned cruel.
He never became what they wanted him to be.
He stayed kind… even when no one saw it.
When a younger kid cried in the hallway, he gave them his last piece of bread. When another was beaten, he stepped in, even if it meant taking the beating himself. When someone fell behind in class, he tried to help—even when they spat in his face the next day.
That was Jareth.
Not a hero.
Just a boy who refused to let the world turn him into a monster.
A voice from the spirit chamber echoed.
"Why didn't you become like them?""Why not let hatred rule you? Why not let the world twist you into what it wanted?"
Jareth's fists trembled.
"I was angry," he admitted. "So many nights I wanted to lash out. But what would that have changed? That's what they wanted. For me to break. For me to disappear into the system. For me to become nothing."
He looked up, voice growing firm.
"I refused. Because if I gave in——then they would win."
The vision changed again.
Years passed in a blink.
He stood now in alleyways, bruised and bloodied, after defending a younger orphan from street thugs. He was fifteen, stubborn, and still kind. Even when everyone he met tried to use him, trick him, discard him—he stayed true.
No magic. No sword. Just will.
He survived on almost nothing. But never took from others.
"You suffered betrayal," a queenly spirit said. "You were stabbed by friends, framed by those you helped. Yet you still helped the next."
"Yes," Jareth whispered. "Because someone has to be better."
The light shifted again.
Now the illusion turned cruel.
His future.
Burning cities. Villages crumbled to ash. Screams—human, elven, and beast alike—echoed through the plains. The lands he had reclaimed were nothing more than smoking craters. The people he had saved were chained, tortured. The children of Sylvaranthe hung from the shattered limbs of the reborn Holy Tree, now black and withered.
And there—at the center of it all—Jareth.
Bound. Mutilated. Forced to watch. His wings torn, his GODGEAR shattered. Forced to watch—
Lyra screaming. Nerina—bleeding, begging—dragged into battle until their bodies collapsed beside him.
Their light gone.
And above them, in a golden cage, Astoria—the Goddess of Light and Time—bound in chains of darkness, her divine aura flickering like a dying star. Mocked, violated, desecrated by the Evil Gods like a toy cast in a pit of wolves.
The illusion stabbed deeper than any blade.
He collapsed to one knee, breath stolen by the horror.
And then, the spirits returned, their voices overlapping in ancient harmony.
"This is the cost of failure.""This is the price if you falter—if you hesitate, even once.""Knowing this... do you still wish to take the seed of Yggdrasil?"
Jareth rose slowly.
Broken.
Trembling.
But standing.
"I am Jareth," he said, his voice low, ragged, but filled with defiance.
"I've seen nothing but broken cities. I've watched people fight with everything they have just to stay alive one more day. I've seen what suffering truly means. And still—I rise."
He stared into the glowing throne.
"If you do not help me, I may not win this war. I cannot guarantee victory. But if you give me your strength—I swear, I will carry the weight of this world on my back."
Silence.
Then...
The chamber brightened.
The twelve spirits stood, their ethereal thrones lifting. They circled around Jareth, one by one placing a spectral hand upon his shoulders, his chest, his brow.
And in unison:
"You are not of our blood. But you are of our spirit."
"You shall bear the seed of Yggdrasil."
"May your flame never falter."
From the center of the chamber, a pedestal emerged—upon it, a glowing orb of emerald light. The seed of the Holy Tree.
Jareth approached, reverently. His fingers closed around it, warmth flooding through his body.
The chamber began to fade. The vision ended.
And he stood once more in the roots of Sylvaranthe.
His trial complete.
But the war far from over.