The Bleeding Tree whispered.
Not in words, but in colors.
Crimson ran down its trunk in threads that pulsed with mories not its own, and roots like veins coiled outward from the shrine grounds, hungry and ancient. Raen stood before it, still as the snow around him, the mark on his chest glowing faintly in rhythm with the tree's breathless silence.
And deep within it, sothing called his na.
Not the one he used now.
But the one he had thrown away.
> "Co closer..."
---
1. The Vision
Raen placed his palm against the bark.
It was warm.
Too warm.
His eyes turned glassy.
And then—like being swallowed whole—he fell inward.
---
He was no longer himself.
He was a god.
No—
He was all of them.
A vast circle of thrones, built from the bones of civilizations. A sea of voices, arrogant and hollow, echoing through golden halls. They argued not in words but in existence—each one trying to be more real than the others, each consuming nas from below like gluttons starving for identity.
Then, in the center—
A boy.
A mortal.
Chained in silence.
Raen felt the chain wrapped around his old neck.
Felt the collar of obedience that bled his mories.
And saw himself rise.
Not in rebellion.
But in hunger.
> "Give your na," he rembered saying.
And the gods, in their arrogance, laughed.
So he devoured the first.
And that was the beginning of the end.
---
Raen snapped back.
The snow returned.
The Bleeding Tree was silent again.
But it had left a gift.
A na on his tongue that didn't belong to him.
> "Tetherbane."
"What the hell does that an?" he muttered.
---
2. Lyra's Magic Training (Kind Of)
anwhile, fifty paces away, Lyra had nearly set a bird on fire.
"No no no no—extinguish—dammit, where's the extinguish spell?!"
The poor bird, now smoking slightly but otherwise alive, flapped away with what dignity it could muster.
Raen watched her from afar and cracked a tired grin.
She was kneeling on a patch of frozen earth, surrounded by open pages from the ancient spellbook—each floating midair, held by her crude control over the "Thread of Thought" incantation.
She waved her hand like a conductor.
The pages spun.
So flew into her face.
One tried to bite her.
"I swear this book hates ," she mumbled.
"It does," Raen called out.
She flinched, then turned and scowled. "You could at least pretend I'm doing well."
"You didn't kill the bird. I count that as a win."
Lyra crossed her arms. "I'd like to see you try forbidden magic without a soul anchor."
Raen's expression flickered—just slightly.
Lyra noticed.
"Wait. You have a soul anchor, don't you?"
He didn't answer.
---
3. Laughter on Ice
Later that evening, they built a fire.
One of the floating pages had finally accepted Lyra's mana and offered her a heat spell—though it also temporarily set Raen's boots on fire in the process.
He hadn't scread.
Much.
"I still think your training thods are chaos incarnate," Raen muttered, toasting a chunk of at over the flas.
Lyra sat beside him, legs crossed, chin in her palm. "Chaos is just misunderstood order."
"Says the girl who conjured a snow elental inside her own cloak."
"It was cold."
They both laughed.
For a mont, the gods didn't exist.
The throne didn't matter.
They were just two kids, ward by fire and failure.
Lyra nudged him with her shoulder. "You smiled."
Raen blinked.
"No I didn't."
"You totally did. Don't go all edgy anti-hero now, I saw it."
Raen raised an eyebrow. "You're imagining things."
"Oh, I'm going to remind you of this mont every ti you act like a grumpy little war demon."
"I am a grumpy little war demon."
They laughed again.
---
4. The Second Vision
The laughter ended when the ground trembled.
Raen turned toward the Bleeding Tree.
Its branches were swaying—but there was no wind.
And the blood on its trunk was boiling.
He stood, stepping into its shadow once more.
A new root had risen, curling toward the shrine. Upon it sat a single black feather.
Raen touched it.
And the world vanished.
---
He stood in a city of mirrors.
Shattered ones.
Each piece reflected a different version of him.
One wore a crown.
One lay on a battlefield, sword buried in his chest.
One... held a baby.
Raen stumbled toward that one.
It vanished.
In its place, he saw her.
Lyra.
Eyes gold as fire, wings of light behind her.
> Lýena.
She reached out—hand trembling—as sothing massive, unseen, devoured her from above.
And again, Raen heard the voice:
> "You were too late once. Will you be again?"
He scread.
And woke.
---
5. Shared Scars
Lyra found him an hour later, crouched by the tree, bleeding from his nose and eyes.
"You went too deep," she said softly, sitting beside him.
He didn't answer.
She offered her flask.
He drank.
"Tell ," she whispered.
So he did.
About the mirrors.
About her wings.
About the choice he never made in ti.
She didn't cry.
But her voice cracked when she said, "If I ever forget again... promise you'll find ."
Raen looked at her, eyes dark and steady.
"I will. Even if I have to burn the sky to do it."
---
6. Na of a Spell
Back at the fire, Raen examined the black feather.
It was now part of the spellbook.
A new page had grown.
He read the na aloud:
> Spell Four – Ashfeather Reversal
Invert mory. Rebirth the mont. Trade blood for ti.
It was too powerful to use now.
But he smiled.
"Looks like we're not done yet," he said, slipping the book away.
Lyra gave a sly smile.
"Ready to conjure more firebirds?"
Raen groaned.
"Please don't."
She raised her hands dramatically.
"Oh mighty fire lord, heed my call—"
"NO—"
---
7. Tomorrow's Breath
That night, they camped beneath the Bleeding Tree.
The shrine flickered with low magical light.
Lyra dozed beside the fire, curled up in Raen's cloak.
Raen sat with the spellbook open in his lap, watching her breathe.
The world was quiet.
But he wasn't.
He whispered to the roots:
> "I'll kill them. All of them. One by one. And when I reach the Throne, I'll ask them why they made her suffer."
He didn't expect an answer.
But the tree responded anyway.
A pulse of warmth beneath his feet.
A heartbeat.
Maybe... his own.
---
To be continued
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