A voice whispered from nowhere and everywhere at once:
"All that you seek lies here."
"Take what you wish."
"No one will know."
Argolaith didn't flinch.
He didn't move toward the weapons.
Didn't bend to examine the plants.
He simply stared into the distance, his eyes narrowing. "Is this it?"
Silence answered.
Then the voice returned—softer, more distant.
"The test is not power.
The test is choice."
Argolaith exhaled. "Then I choose to walk."
And so, he did.
The path was not marked.
There was no road.
But Argolaith walked.
Past swords inscribed with runes of forgotten gods.
Past a golden staff pulsing with the warmth of solar magic.
Past a twisted tree bearing fruits said to grant eternal stamina.
None of it slowed him.
The temptation wasn't just physical. As he walked, the air shimred with images from his mind—visions of power, of himself standing atop citadels, armies at his back, the five trees bowing in reverence.
He ignored them.
Not out of arrogance.
But clarity.
Power ant nothing if he could not earn it. And these things—these gifts—they weren't his. They were left here to test the depth of his hunger.
Not just for power.
But for purpose.
At the center of the world, a tall monolith slowly ca into view—a tree, pale and narrow, its roots dug deep into white stone. It was smaller than the others he had seen. Slender. Quiet. A tree one might overlook.
But its presence was undeniable.
The third tree.
He walked the last stretch in silence.
Behind him, the mythical weapons glead.
The plants pulsed with soft light.
The wind carried the scent of things long forgotten.
But none of it mattered.
Because ahead was truth.
The kind earned by resistance, not desire.
And as Argolaith stepped closer to the tree, he felt the trial begin to shift—not with fanfare, not with warning.
But with invitation.
The third tree had seen his will.
And it would soon reveal its own.
The pale tree stood alone at the center of the realm—quiet, humble, and entirely unlike the towering giants Argolaith had seen before.
It was no more than twice his height, with thin, twisting branches that shimred silver when they caught the faint light of the skyless void. Its bark was smooth, white-gray, and pulsed softly with veins of green light, like breath flowing beneath skin.
Despite its size, it radiated a kind of presence that made the weapons in the field behind him feel insignificant.
Argolaith stopped ten paces from it.
He did not bow.
He did not kneel.
He stood still—respectful, but not afraid.
And the tree spoke.
Not aloud.
Within.
"You have walked far."
The voice was soft. Young. Not ancient or booming like the other trees.
"You did not stray.
You did not take.
You passed the field of false power.
But that was only the invitation."
Argolaith's jaw tightened. "I'm ready for more."
"Are you?" the tree asked, the words like wind in leaves. "Even now, you walk with questions. You want power—to protect, to preserve, to beco. But what are you willing to lose?"
The ground beneath his feet shifted.
Not cracking. Not trembling.
Transforming.
The white stone dissolved into water.
But Argolaith did not fall.
He stood upon it like it was still solid, though beneath him now was a reflection.
Not his current self.
A younger version—barefoot, eyes wide, sitting by a fire in the small cabin at the edge of Seminah.
Lonely.
Hungry.
Quiet.
The reflection stared up at him.
"You walked away from this."
"You gave up simplicity for struggle."
"But you never buried the guilt."
The reflection stood.
And beca him.
Argolaith found himself facing a perfect replica—identical down to the line of his jaw and the pattern of scars across his arms. The figure didn't move aggressively, didn't draw a weapon.
It simply looked at him with a faint, tired expression.
"I never asked to carry this path," the reflection said. "You chose it. You chased it. Every step toward the trees, toward strength, you left sothing behind."
Argolaith said nothing.
"Did you think you wouldn't be asked to pay for that?" the figure asked again.
Argolaith's hand moved instinctively to his belt—toward the vials of lifeblood.
"I've paid."
"No," the figure said. "You've survived. You've earned. But the tree doesn't care about what you gained. It wants to see what you'll give."
The tree's voice returned—now layered with tone, like wind through chis and shifting water.
"To progress, you must offer."
"Not blood. Not coin. Not strength."
"But sothing precious."
"Sothing yours."
A pedestal rose from the mirrored surface beneath the tree. Upon it, an empty bowl of obsidian glass.
Argolaith approached slowly. The mirrored version of himself followed.
"What is it asking?" he murmured.
"Exactly what you fear," the reflection replied.
The bowl pulsed faintly.
Images surged through Argolaith's mind. mories.
Athos, placing the storage ring in his hand with a quiet nod. Kaelred, half-smirking after one of their earliest fights, blood still drying on his sleeve. Malakar's first words to him, cold and dangerous. Thae'Zirak bowing low after his collar was changed. The first al he cooked with magical herbs. The ruins. The cold cave near the mountain. The quiet laughter in between survival.
The voice whispered again:
"What will you part with… to pass?"
Argolaith stared at the bowl.
Then at his reflection.
And felt sothing in his chest tighten.
He turned away from the bowl and sat cross-legged on the mirrored floor. The reflection sat across from him, mirroring the pose.
Neither spoke for a ti.
Because this wasn't a trial of reaction or action.
It was a trial of choice.
And the hardest ones could not be rushed.
The mirrored ground beneath Argolaith shimred with a gentle rhythm, reflecting not just light, but thought—mory—identity.
The small tree stood silent at the center of it all, its pale bark pulsing with veins of green light like a heartbeat echoing through ti. The obsidian bowl on the pedestal remained empty, expectant.
Argolaith sat before it, legs crossed, arms resting loosely on his knees, staring at his own reflection across the surface of the strange realm.
He had been sitting there for hours.
Not sleeping. Not resting.
Thinking.
The tree had asked him for sothing precious. Not a tool. Not power. But sothing personal. Sothing that could not be reclaid.
The trial was clear: surrender a mory—sothing rooted deep within him. A joy. A lesson. A mont that had shaped the man he had beco.
He had sifted through dozens:
His first fire in the cabin outside Seminah. The mont he realized he could survive alone. Athos handing him the storage ring with a rare look of approval. His first kill—bloody, ssy, terrifying—yet necessary. The laughter Kaelred had forced out of him after days of silence in the ruins. That quiet night when Malakar, unprompted, offered advice on sword form. The way it felt like a father's gesture, cloaked in pride.
They all mattered.
And giving any of them up felt like amputating a part of himself.
He knew the tree would accept it. One single mont, one core piece of who he was. The bowl would fill. The trial would end.
But every ti he reached for one—
His hands refused.
He didn't want to forget.
Because those mories didn't just shape him. They anchored him.
And then—
It struck him.
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