At the chamber’s center lay a pool of water, perfectly still, surface gleaming with golden light. Runes swirled beneath, alive yet indecipherable.
Ashwing pressed close to his ear. Don’t touch it.
Lindarion knelt by the pool, his reflection staring back, shadows under his eyes, silver threads of mana flickering through his irises.
The surface rippled without him moving.
For an instant, the reflection changed.
A figure with scales along his jaw. Wings unfurled at his back. His own face, yet not.
[System notice: Fragment alignment—initiated.]
The choice pulsed before him like a blade drawn.
He closed his fist, forcing the system back.
"Not yet," he whispered. His reflection steadied, only his own eyes staring back.
Ashwing exhaled shakily. ’Good. That was scary.’
Lindarion rose, cloak brushing the roots. The pool dimmed, as if disappointed.
But the golden motes still drifted deeper, toward another path winding below.
Ashwing groaned. ’You’re going to follow it, aren’t you?’
Because whatever the World Tree sought to show him, it wasn’t finished.
The spiral path narrowed as Lindarion descended further, roots weaving into arches that seemed carved for something taller, older, not meant for elves. The golden motes moved ahead of him, drifting like patient guides, always just far enough to force him onward.
The air thickened until it tasted metallic, like lightning before a storm. Every breath burned with mana. His core pulsed in rhythm with the Tree itself, a slow, ancient thrum that resonated in his ribs.
[System notice: Synchronization increasing—12%... 19%... 27%.]
[Warning: Overexposure will destabilize mana control.]
Ashwing’s claws dug into his shoulder. ’You’re glowing, Lindarion.’
He glanced at his hands. The veins along his skin shimmered faintly, not with fire or shadow, but with raw golden light, as if the Tree itself bled through him.
He curled his fingers into a fist. "Ignore it."
Ashwing huffed. ’Easy for you to say. I don’t want to get roasted if you explode.’
The tunnel widened suddenly into another chamber.
This one wasn’t empty.
Rows of stone seats curved around the walls, half-crumbling, as though the place had once been a council hall buried in the living wood. More carvings adorned the chamber, but here they showed not reverence, battle.
Half-dragons clashed with figures of shadow, grotesque forms etched into the wood like scars. Above them all, the World Tree loomed, its branches drawn as though shielding the warriors.
At the center of the hall rose a pedestal, roots spiraling up to cradle a single object: a crystal shard, faintly humming with inner light.
Ashwing’s tail flicked nervously. ’That looks important. Don’t touch it.’
The system whispered before Lindarion could step closer.
[System notice: Relic identified—World Tree fragment.]
[Properties: Unknown. Resonance with draconic and divine affinities confirmed.]
[Acquisition possible.]
This wasn’t just history. It was a fragment of the Tree itself.
He stepped forward. The chamber groaned faintly, as if acknowledging him.
Ashwing muttered in his head, You’re going to ignore me again, aren’t you?
His palm met the shard.
The world went white.
He stood in a field beneath a sky split by fire. Half-dragons fought in endless ranks, wings beating storms into the heavens. Shadows poured from cracks in the ground, swallowing light, swallowing sound. The World Tree towered in the distance, bleeding golden fire from its roots, every branch aflame with power.
A voice boomed through the vision, not heard but carved into his bones.
Children of scale and blood. Protect the root. Protect the flame. Should you fall, the world falls with you.
Lindarion staggered back, the shard dimming beneath his hand. His breath came sharp, every muscle trembling.
[System notice: Fragment absorbed.]
[Effect: Core synchronization increased—42%. Partial access to draconic heritage unlocked.]
Ashwing’s voice was a thin whisper. ’You... you look different. Your eyes...’
Lindarion blinked. The reflection in the shard’s surface faint streaks of gold threading his irises.
He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t let anyone see this. Not yet.
The shard crumbled into dust, absorbed by the roots. The chamber dimmed. The motes drifted toward another passage, deeper still.
Ashwing groaned, wings twitching. I hate this place.
Lindarion straightened, his voice cold, steady. "Then stay close. We’re not done."
And without another word, he followed the light into the next descent.
The air grew colder the deeper Lindarion followed the light. Not the crisp cold of ice, but a bone-deep chill that felt old, heavy. The roots around him thickened until they were like walls, each pulse of mana humming like a heartbeat beneath his palms.
Ashwing shifted restlessly on his shoulder, claws tapping. ’It’s too quiet. Even the bugs don’t want to live here.’
Lindarion’s eyes narrowed. The motes of gold had slowed, floating as if testing him, waiting for him to choose. He reached the next chamber.
This one was smaller, more intimate. A circle of roots formed a low dome, their inner bark etched with flowing script, not Elvish, not any tongue he had ever seen. The words glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with his own mana core.
[System notice: Ancient script detected. Attempting translation...]
[Translation incomplete: Language identified—Draconic Prime.]
Ashwing tilted his head, little tongue flicking out. ’That’s... dragon-tongue. But older. Even I can’t read that.’
Lindarion stepped closer, tracing the script with his fingertips. The marks responded, light searing brighter where his skin passed.
One word burned clear enough for him to understand.
His throat tightened.
’Chosen by what? The Tree? The dragons? Or something older?’ ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ noⅴelfire.net
The motes gathered in the center of the chamber, swirling until they formed a faint silhouette, humanoid, but with faint wings unfurling from its back. Not real, not solid. A memory left behind.
The figure lifted its hand. Its voice was neither male nor female, but a harmony of both, reverberating like a chord plucked from the roots themselves.
Blood of sun. Shadow of flame. You stand where many failed. If you walk forward, you will carry what they could not.
The image fractured, dispersing back into light.
Ashwing’s voice whispered sharp in his mind. ’Lindarion... you don’t have to keep going. We can leave now. Pretend we never saw this.’
He didn’t answer immediately. His pulse still hammered from the shard’s vision, from the golden fire now threading faintly through his veins.
The system intruded again.