The Goddess of the World Tree appeared before them.
Sylvaria.
Root and Soul.
Lesser God, but God nonetheless.
The figure stood before the altar—a shape of pure light so brilliant that it hurt to look upon directly, yet so magnificent that none could avert their gaze. She rose taller than any elf, taller than the queen, taller than the elders, taller than the knights in their silvered armor. Her form seemed to stretch upward into eternity, her crown lost in the void beyond the stars, her feet invisible within the radiant glow of the sacred pond. Her countenance defied comprehension—each time a mortal sought to fix their gaze upon her features, their eyes would slide away as water over stone, unable to grasp the infinite made finite.
Yet her presence was unmistakable.
She was ancient—so dreadfully, wonderfully ancient that the ten thousand years of Sylvaris dwindled to but a single heartbeat in the chronicle of her existence. She was powerful—so immeasurably, terrifyingly powerful that the destruction of the Dreadvex Ape became as a child snapping a twig between small fingers.
She was eternal—so patient that she had watched empires rise and crumble to dust, had seen dynasties bloom and wither, had observed the turning of ages without ever growing weary or impatient or unkind.
She turned her gaze upon the queen and spoke.
Her voice did not travel through the air as mortal speech does, carried upon vibrations and heard with ears. It resonated directly within the bones, within the chest, within the very soul—a sound that preceded language, that transcended words, that spoke to the deepest core of being.
"My beloved descendant," the Goddess said, her tone warm as summer sunlight filtering through ancient leaves, "for what purpose have you summoned me from my slumber?"
The queen bowed—not the slight inclination of the head that she offered to visiting dignitaries, nor the formal deference she showed to the elders, but a profound and abject prostration. Her forehead pressed against the cold stones at her feet.
Her Golden-brown hair spilled across the ground like a river of autumn leaves, mingling with the dust and the fading glow from the sacred pond. Her hands lay flat upon the earth, palms upward, fingers spread—the gesture of one who offered not merely respect, but her very self.
Behind her, every official, every elder, every knight knelt in the deepest reverence they had ever shown in all their centuries of life. Their foreheads touched the stone. Their hands lay before them, open and empty. Their voices, raised moments before in desperate prayer, were silenced now, for in the presence of divinity, what words could suffice?
Only Sophia remained standing.
She stood at the edge of the gathered crowd, her Pink hair wild and unbound, her green eyes fixed upon the glowing figure with suspicion that bordered on hostility.
Her bandaged hands gripped Yuuta's small fingers, holding him close, holding him safe. As soon as the Goddess appeared, Sophia moved with the instinct of a mother wolf sensing danger. She stepped before Yuuta, positioning her fragile body between him and the divine presence. Her free hand pressed against his chest, pushing him backward, behind her leg.
She hid him.
Yuuta stood behind her, his red eyes lifeless and unfocused, staring at nothing. He did not understand where he was. He did not comprehend the glowing figure or the prostrate queen or the trembling elders.
The world had become a haze of pain and fear and confusion, and he had retreated to the deepest recesses of himself, to the place where the agony could not reach him. He clung to Sophia's hand, his small fingers wrapped around hers, and he waited—for what, he did not know.
The queen spoke, her voice trembling, her forehead still pressed against the stone.
"O Great Sylvaria, Root and Soul of the World Tree, Keeper of Memory and Guardian of the Living Wood, we are humbled beyond measure that our prayers have been answered. We beseech your aid, for my daughter—the Princess Sophia, your descendant and blood of your blood—her mind has been shattered."
The Goddess inclined her head, her luminous form bending slightly as she turned her attention to the pink-haired girl who still stood defiant, still growled like a wounded animal, still shielded a human child with her broken body.
The Goddess looked upon Sophia's eyes—those wild, unfocused, mad green eyes—and then she looked deeper. She looked past the flesh and blood, past the bandages and scars, past the shattered fragments of the girl who had once been. She looked upon the mind itself—the broken pieces scattered like glass upon a stone floor, the fragments of memory and personality and self that had been destroyed by the Froven wolf's death roar.
And she saw them healing.
Slowly, imperceptibly, like the first stirrings of spring after a cruel winter, the pieces were coming together. They were not whole—not yet, not for many years—but they moved. They sought their proper places. They stitched themselves back together, guided by something deeper than magic, something more profound than prayer, something that even a Goddess could not fully explain.
"You need not trouble yourself, my descendant," the Goddess said, her voice gentle as a mother soothing a frightened child. "Your daughter has already entered the healing phase."
The queen lifted her head, confusion etched upon her tear-stained features. "The healing phase, Great One?"
"Indeed. Her body has been gathering esper from the environment—from the air, from the soil, from the very essence of the World Tree itself. She has absorbed so much memory, so much experience, so much raw emotion that her mind has begun to reconstruct itself. Piece by piece. Memory by memory. The right fragments are finding their proper places, as a puzzle solves itself when left undisturbed. It shall not require more than five decades for her to recover completely."
"Fifty years," the queen whispered.
The number hung in the air like a sentence of exile. Fifty years of watching her daughter stumble through the corridors of the palace, lost and confused. Fifty years of hearing that growl, seeing that wildness in familiar green eyes. Fifty years of waiting for a miracle that would come only with time.
But she was a queen. She had learned to accept what could not be changed. She lowered her voice, though she could not keep the desperation from creeping into her tone.
"Great Sylvaria, is there no way to heal her more swiftly? No magic, no ritual, no sacrifice that might restore her mind within a Year?"
The Goddess's light pulsed gently, a soft undulation like the breathing of a sleeping giant.
"My dear descendant, you must not meddle in what is already healing. She will recover on her own—fully, completely, without flaw—if left to the natural course of her own spirit. But if you, or any other, attempt to heal her with external magic, you shall cause irreparable harm. The damage will worsen. The healing shall stretch beyond a century, perhaps more. The mind is not a wound to be closed with spells and salves. It is a garden that must be tended by the gardener's own hand."
The queen did not argue.
She had learned, long ago, that the Goddess did not offer false counsel. She bowed her head again, accepting the divine judgment as she had accepted every judgment before it—with grace, with dignity, and with the quiet sorrow of a mother who could not ease her child's suffering.
"As Queen of Sylvaris and your descendant of the great lineage that stretches back to the planting of the First Seed, I am blessed beyond measure by your wisdom," the queen said, her voice steady despite her tears. "I thank you on behalf of the Sylvaris Kingdom, its people, its elders, and its children. I swear upon my crown, upon my blood, upon my very soul, that I shall protect your legacy, Great Sylvaria. I shall honor your name until my last breath leaves this body."
The Goddess smiled.
The expression was not visible—her face remained too bright, too undefined, too far beyond mortal comprehension—but the warmth of it spread across the altar like the first rays of dawn. The cold wind that had plagued the mountaintop ceased. The stones beneath their knees grew warm. The stars above seemed to shine a little brighter.
And then the Goddess began to fade.
Her luminous form dimmed, slowly at first, then more rapidly, as if she was stepping backward into a realm that mortal eyes could not perceive. The glow from the sacred pond subsided, the water returning to its clear, still state, reflecting the stars above like a mirror of polished glass.
The queen exhaled—a long, trembling breath she had not realized she was holding. The elders began to rise from their knees, their ancient joints creaking, their hands reaching for their staves for support. The knights lowered their swords, the points resting against the stone.
But the Goddess did not depart.
Her fading figure paused—not gradually, not gracefully, but abruptly, as if some unseen hand had seized her, as if some impossible sight had arrested her retreat. Her light flared once, briefly, illuminating the entire mountaintop in a blaze of white radiance.
She was looking at something behind Sophia.
Her eyes—if such they could be called—widened.
Her form, which had been calm and gentle moments before, sharpened with intensity.
The warmth that had radiated from her cooled into something harder, something more focused, something that carried the weight of divine attention.
She raised her hand.
A single finger extended toward the child hidden behind the broken princess.
"How," the Goddess said, "can he be here?"
Her voice had changed.
The maternal warmth, the gentle reassurance, the soothing cadence—all gone. Replaced by something sharper, something colder, something that trembled at the edges with an emotion Erza had never expected to hear from a deity.
"How is it possible that he yet lives?"
The queen froze.
Her blood turned to ice in her veins. Her hands, which had been reaching for her daughter, stopped mid-motion. Her lips parted, but no words emerged.
The elders froze.
Their ancient faces, carved by millennia of experience, paled to the color of bone.
Their hands trembled around their staves.
Their eyes, wide with a fear they had not felt in centuries, darted from the Goddess to the queen to the small child hidden behind the princess.
The knights, still on their knees, looked up with confusion and terror mingled in their faces. They had never heard the Goddess speak in such a manner.
None had.
The records of Sylvaris, stretching back ten thousand years, contained no account of the Goddess raising her voice—let alone raising it in something that sounded so terribly close to fear.
Because how could a Goddess know fear?
She was absolute.
She was eternal.
She was beyond the petty terrors that plagued mortal hearts.
Yet fear—undeniable, unmistakable fear—flickered in her voice.
Sophia growled.
The moment she saw that divine finger pointing at Yuuta, she moved with the speed of a striking serpent. She stepped further before him, spreading her arms wide, her bandaged hands curling into claws.
Her lips pulled back from her teeth, revealing teeth that were not sharp but seemed sharp in the intensity of her fury. A sound rose from her throat—low and dangerous and filled with promises of violence that her broken mind could not fully articulate.
"Waaa... wahhh... WAAAA..."
She would not let anyone take him.
Not the queen.
Not the elders.
Not the Goddess herself.
Yuuta stood behind her, his red eyes lifeless, his small body swaying slightly with each breath. He did not understand what was happening.
He did not understand who the glowing figure was or why she was pointing at him or why everyone had grown so terribly still.
He was so afraid—afraid of the world, afraid of the elves, afraid of the darkness that had followed him since the laboratory—that he had retreated into the deepest caverns of his own mind.
He stood where Sophia placed him. He held her hand. He waited.
The Goddess turned her attention to the queen.
"My descendant," she said, and her voice had become formal now, distant, the voice of a sovereign addressing a subject who had committed an unthinkable error. "I ask you plainly: is this child unknown to you?"
The queen hesitated.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. She could feel the eyes of the elders upon her, the eyes of the knights, the eyes of the Goddess herself—burning, waiting, judging.
"No, Great One," she said, her voice steady despite the trembling of her hands. "This child is not unknown to me. He is here under my protection."
The Goddess's light pulsed—faster now, agitated, like a heart struggling against some terrible weight.
"Why did you bring him unto this sacred place? Do you comprehend what manner of being he is? Do you understand the nature of his existence?"
The queen bowed her head, her silver-brown hair falling forward to curtain her face. When she spoke, her voice was low but unwavering.
"We know, Great One. The memory reading has revealed all. We know what he was created to be. We know the purpose for which he was forged. We know the danger he represents—to us, to our kingdom, to the world itself."
Silence fell upon the mountaintop.
The wind ceased. The stars seemed to hold their breath. Even the sacred pond grew still, its surface becoming a perfect mirror that reflected the frozen tableau.
Then the Goddess spoke again, and her voice was colder than the void between stars.
"Then why have you permitted him to remain within our borders? Do you seek to destroy the Sylvaris Kingdom by your own hand? Do you wish to see the World Tree reduced to ash and memory?"
The queen could not answer.
She opened her mouth, but no words came. What could she say? That she had changed? That she had witnessed his memories and wept? That her daughter—her broken, shattered, mad daughter—loved this child with a love that transcended reason or self-preservation? That she could not bear to take him away, to send him back to a world that would only hurt him again?
The Goddess's words were true.
Everything she said was true.
Yuuta was dangerous. He was a weapon forged in the darkest depths of World cruelty. He was created to kill—to kill dragons, to kill elves, to kill anything that stood in the path of those who had made him.
And yet.
And yet the queen could not send him away.
She remained silent, her head bowed, her tears falling onto the stones at her feet.
The Goddess turned to the elders.
They were still on their knees, their ancient faces lifted toward the divine form, their eyes wide with the weight of what they had witnessed in the Chamber of Echoes. The Goddess looked upon them—upon Theilon, upon Seraphine, upon Thorn, upon all the others who had served Sylvaris for millennia, whose wisdom had guided the kingdom through wars and famines and the rise and fall of nations.
"Why did you not prevent this?" the Goddess demanded. "It is your sacred duty to guide the queen. It is your sworn purpose to protect the kingdom from harm. Why did you permit her to make this choice? Why did you not counsel her against it?"
Elder Theilon raised his head.
His ancient eyes—milky with age yet sharp with a wisdom that had been earned through centuries of suffering—met the Goddess's luminous gaze. His hands trembled upon his staff, but his voice, when he spoke, was steady as stone.
"We understand your concern, Great One. We comprehend the gravity of what we have done. But the elders of Sylvaris have made their decision. We stand with this child."
The Goddess's light flared so brightly that the knights shielded their faces. The stones beneath their feet grew warm, then hot. The sacred pond rippled, its still surface disturbed by the force of her reaction.
"Are you bereft of reason, elders? Have the centuries addled your minds?"
She stepped closer to them—if a being of pure light could be said to step. Her form loomed above them, vast and terrible and brilliant beyond comprehension. Her voice, when she spoke again, carried the weight of divine wrath.
"Why would you champion a creature such as he? Do you not comprehend what he is? Every wound he suffers, every cruelty inflicted upon his flesh, every moment of torment—it shall return tenfold upon those who harmed him. He is a disaster given flesh. A cataclysm waiting to awaken. A child of catastrophe whose footsteps leave cracks in the foundation of reality itself."
Her light pulsed with each word, each syllable a hammer blow against their hearts.
"He is a living nightmare. A creature born from the accumulated sin of this world—every act of violence, every drop of blood, every tear shed in hatred or fear or despair. All of it flows through him. All of it waits within him. He is not a boy. He is not a child. He is a wound in the fabric of existence, and any who strike that wound shall be consumed by its infection."
The words fell like blades—sharp and cold and cutting.
The elders flinched but did not look away.
The queen bowed her head but did not speak.
Sophia held Yuuta tighter and growled, though she could not hear the words, though she could not understand.
And Yuuta heard nothing.
The Goddess had covered his ears.
Her magic—subtle and gentle, barely perceptible, a whisper of divine will—wrapped around his head like a cocoon of silence. It blocked the words that would have shattered him. It muffled the sounds that would have broken what remained of his spirit.
The child who had been tortured and beaten and broken so many times, who had finally found a moment of peace in Sophia's arms, who had closed his eyes and slept without nightmares for the first time in his short, terrible life—he would not hear these words.
He would not know that the Goddess herself called him a walking disaster, a living nightmare, a creature born of sin.
He would not know.
And because the memory followed Yuuta—because Erza and Isvarn could only see and hear what Yuuta saw and heard—they too heard nothing.
The sacred mountaintop became a theater of silence.
Erza watched the Goddess's lips move—forming words of power, words of warning, words that made the elders tremble and the queen weep. She watched the queen's face grow pale, watched her hands clasp before her in desperate supplication. She watched the elders bow their heads, accepting the divine rebuke without defense.
But she could not hear the words.
Only silence.
Only the movement of lips and the shaking of shoulders and the slow, terrible fading of the Goddess's light.
"What is she saying?" Erza whispered, her voice barely audible even to herself.
Isvarn stood beside her, his violet eyes fixed on the scene before them. His ancient face was troubled, his brows drawn together in concentration.
"I do not know, my queen," he said. "The Goddess is hiding her words from Yuuta. And we are bound to his perception—we can only see and hear what he sees and hears."
Erza's hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her claws extended, pressing against her palms, drawing beads of blood that she did not notice.
"So close," she murmured. "The answers are right there. They are speaking the truth aloud, and I cannot—"
"Patience," Isvarn said.
"The memory continues. All will be revealed in time."
To be Contiuned....