Sylvara – The Enchanted forest – hums tonight.
Every leaf, every root, every creature whispers a secret. The moss beneath my bare feet glows faintly, pale blue, soft as wool. Mushrooms pulse with their own light, dimming and brightening like slow heartbeats. Between the trunks, yellow eyes watch, but they never come closer.
I glance at Mother, Ilyndra. She stands before the old tree again, the one with a trunk as wide as our home, bark blackened with age, roots burrowing deeper than I can see. She rests her hand against it as if it is alive. Maybe it is.
"What a pity," she whispers, stroking the scar along the bark. "You haven't changed at all. And yet… look at what time has done to me."
A breeze stirs. The branches sway, creaking like an old man sighing. For a moment, I almost hear words inside the sound.
Mother smiles faintly. "He says life is never still. Do not listen to your roots too much, Aelric. They'll keep you tied."
I nod, though I do not understand. The tree towers above me, its limbs reaching for the sky like claws. Why does she talk to it? And why does it feel like it answers?
We live inside this tree, in its hollow heart. The wood curves around us like ribs, and when the wind moves through, it moans as though the whole trunk is breathing. At night, the vines coiled up its bark glow faintly, lighting our small space in silver. I fall asleep with that glow in my eyes and wake to it every morning.
Mother says the tree chose us. I think it merely tolerates us, the way the forest tolerates her.
She turns from the bark, her golden eyes catching mine. "Come." I followed.
The river waits not far from here, black under the moon, its surface broken with pale streaks of light. I crouch at the bank, and she kneels beside me. The forest's hum is louder here, as though the water carries its song.
"Magic is not fire, not wind, not even strength," she says, dipping her hand into the stream. "It is listening."
The hymn rolls off her tongue, soft and low. The river glows around her fingers, alive, bending toward her as though it wants to obey. The light twists into a spiral, beautiful and effortless.
"Your turn."
I whisper the same words, carefully, exactly as written in the Book of Magic. The river flickers, a brief shimmer that dies almost as quickly as it came. My heart sinks.
"You copy the book," she says. "That's why it fails. The words are doors, Aelric. But you must choose what lies behind them."
She repeats the hymn. The same words. But this time it bends to the left, twisting light into a spiral.
"Magic is the shape of your thought. The hymn is only a vessel; your will gives it life. Imagination is the key that turns silence into power."
I grit my teeth, close my eyes. This time, I imagine a line of light, sharp as a blade, cutting across the current. My voice trembles as I finish the hymn, and a thin beam glows through the river's surface. Small, unsteady, but there.
Her lips twitch into the faintest smile. "Faster than I expected. Good."
I flush with pride, but she does not let me hold it. Her hand presses against my chest, firm. "Mana is blood. Spill too much, and you bleed yourself dry. Never cast without a plan. And behind every plan, a sub-plan. The forest never fights with only one shape. Why should you fight it with only one answer?"
Her words are heavy, and yet they root themselves in me.
Suddenly the bushes rustle. My body tenses. The eyes watching us step into the clearing, taller than me, fur bristling, a wolf with fire glowing in its ribs. The air tastes of ash.
I reach for a hymn, but Mother's hand halts me. "No words," she says. "Show me your agility."
The wolf lunges. My body moves before thought. I dive aside, roll across moss, spring to my feet. Heat licks my arm. Another leap, and I climb a low branch, the bark scraping my palms. The wolf snaps at my leg, but I swing higher, heart pounding.
I leap from the branch as it comes again, twisting in the air. I land behind it, grab a stone, and slam it into its glowing ribs. Sparks burst. The beast howls.
"Now" My instinct calls.
I whisper the hymn, shaping the blade of light I saw in my mind at the river. Thin, trembling, but enough. I thrust it into the wolf's side. Fire flickers, gutters out. The beast collapses, twitching once before going still.
I pant, sweat stinging my eyes. My hands shake.
Mother kneels by the corpse, calm as ever. "Good speed. Sharp reaction. But where was your sub-plan?"
I hesitate, throat dry. "I… didn't have one."
Her eyes narrow, sharp as a blade. "Never again. Without a sub-plan, you are already defeated. Magic, muscle, speed, they are nothing without foresight."
Shame burns hotter than the wolf's fire. I lower my gaze.
Her tone softens. "You learn quickly. That is what matters. Tomorrow, you'll do better."
We walk back beneath the canopy. The forest glows faintly with vines and flowers that drip liquid light, the shadows alive with whispers. I can still feel the wolf's heat in my skin, the echo of its howl in my chest.
When we reach the Witness, Mother rests her hand on its trunk once more. The great bark groans, deep and ancient.
I lean against the tree, the wood cool beneath my cheek. The leaves murmur overhead, as though they agree.
"I'll be ready," I whisper.
Mother does not answer. However, her hand finds my shoulder, steady and warm, and the Witness creaks in the dark, alive and listening.
The night deepens. The forest hums softer now, as though weary. I lie down on my bed of moss, staring up at the ceiling where threads of light drift lazily between the cracks. My muscles ache, but it is a good ache, proof that I fought, that I learned.