God’s Tree

One of the creatures tilted its head and let out a sound—a wet gurgle that vibrated through the earth instead of the air. The others responded in kind.

Then they charged.

The first one launched forward in a burst of jerking motion, limbs spasming in unnatural patterns, faster than anything that size should move.

Argolaith met it with steel, driving his blade through its chest—

Only for the creature's body to twist around the blade, melting into a new shape before reforming.

Kaelred was already moving, slicing through the legs of another one as it lunged for Malakar, but the cut spilled no blood, only a swirl of mist and a black, tar-like substance that evaporated on contact.

Thae'Zirak roared from the mist beyond, his flame slicing through the fog like a blade of night. One of the creatures let out a horrible, fluting scream as it disintegrated under the black fire.

Malakar raised both hands, shadows spiraling around his arms like coiled serpents. "Don't kill them with magic. They absorb it."

Argolaith grunted. "Of course they do."

One of the creatures leapt onto him, latching with clawed hands that had too many joints. He threw it off with a sharp twist, spun, and drove his sword down through its core.

This time, it didn't shift.

It shivered, cracked—and collapsed into a puddle of steaming sludge.

"Physical trauma works!" Kaelred shouted, stabbing one of his daggers into the eye cluster of another. It burst like overripe fruit, the creature convulsing violently before crumpling into a twitching mess.

They fought as a unit—silent, quick, deadly. The creatures were strong, fast, but their coordination was erratic. They reacted more than they thought. Instinct over strategy.

Argolaith found a rhythm in their chaos, each swing of his blade cleaner, more precise, slicing through twisted limbs and malformed joints.

Kaelred was a blur, slipping between grasping claws, his movements unpredictable. He struck like a serpent—always for a weak point.

Malakar's shadows shielded them, not with offense but with control—barriers that slowed the creatures just long enough for steel to finish what magic could not.

And Thae'Zirak…

Thae'Zirak was a storm.

His wings shattered creatures like wind through bone. His flame bathed the rear ranks, turning those who dared approach from behind into soot. His presence alone held the fog at bay.

Within minutes, the remaining creatures fled, folding into the mist as if returning to the womb.

Silence returned.

The snow fell again.

And the fire still burned.

Argolaith wiped his blade clean on a shard of cloth from his cloak. "They weren't guardians."

"No," Malakar said. "They were parasites. Drawn to the changes in the land. To you."

Kaelred sheathed his daggers. "That was the grossest thing I've ever fought. And I've fought gross things."

Argolaith looked toward the mist, where the creatures had disappeared. "They'll come again. The land's waking up. This—this whole place—is a boundary. And something beyond it doesn't want us crossing."

Thae'Zirak stepped forward, his voice low. "Then we cross faster."

They left the mist-soaked battlefield behind before dawn had fully risen.

The fog hadn't vanished—but it had retreated, curling back like it had simply grown bored. But none of them trusted it. Not after what had crawled out from its depths the night before.

Thae'Zirak flew low, barely above the ridgeline, his wings tucking tighter than usual to avoid the wind-scarred rock spines that jutted from the earth like broken fingers. The land here was less frozen wasteland and more… warped.

Not dead. Not alive.

Something in between.

Argolaith sat quiet, his blue eyes trained on the horizon, thoughts buried beneath layers of caution. The creatures had shaken them, but more than that—the feel of this place had shifted.

The terrain now felt like it was unmaking itself.

Trees grew in impossible shapes—upside down, twisting inward, their roots clinging to rocks rather than soil. Rivers flowed uphill before curving sideways into narrow fissures that vanished into black.

"What is this place?" Kaelred asked, clutching one of the leather straps as they dipped beneath a jagged arch of stone. "It's like reality cracked and then no one bothered to fix it."

"It's memory," Malakar replied, his voice low. "Fractured. This land was rewritten. But poorly."

"Rewritten by who?" Kaelred asked.

"No one who remains," Malakar said.

By mid-morning, they were forced to land.

Thae'Zirak's wings were growing heavy—not from fatigue, but resistance. The air was thick, and not with moisture. It clung like pressure, like the gravity here had increased without reason. Each wingbeat required more force.

"I do not like flying through this," the dragon hybrid rumbled. "There's something beneath the surface pulling upward. Like hands trying to catch us."

"Then we walk," Argolaith said.

They descended into a narrow valley—one of many that crisscrossed the warped region. The ground was dry, cracked like scales, but glistened as if damp. Strange plants curled in clusters around obsidian outcroppings—fleshy pods with thin, blind tendrils that moved ever so slightly toward warmth.

Kaelred kicked one and watched it recoil. "Great. Everything's alive. And hungry."

Argolaith moved cautiously, blade drawn, eyes scanning every movement. He didn't sense his third tree yet—no pull, no whisper, no warmth. It was still far. That much was clear.

But something in this place was watching.

Not the creatures from the mist.

Something older.

They reached a plateau as evening neared. From its edge, they could see out across a jagged expanse—valleys twisted like veins, plateaus fractured and floating slightly above the ground, suspended by unknown force.

But at the center of the plateau was something that stopped them cold.

A monument.

Or what had once been one.

A circle of ancient stone obelisks, shattered and half-sunk into the dirt. Carvings marked them—symbols not in any language they knew. But one thing stood out: a depiction of a man with blue eyes standing before a crystal tree.

Argolaith stepped forward slowly. "That's… not possible."

Kaelred blinked. "Is that supposed to be you?"

Argolaith said nothing. He knelt before the broken stone and ran a hand across the carving. The figure's features were vague, but the shape was unmistakable.

And around the tree in the image… were five stars, each carved with incredible care.

Malakar stared. "This is a memory. But not one from now. Someone saw your path long before you ever took it."

Argolaith rose slowly. "I don't like it."

"Why not?" Kaelred asked.

Argolaith turned his gaze back to the carving. "Because whoever made this—knew I'd be here. And they still let the land fall to ruin."

That night, they camped beside the shattered monument. The air remained heavy, the stars above dull and flickering, like dying embers on the verge of vanishing. Even the moonlight felt strained, as if it had to fight to shine here.

Argolaith sat near the fire, turning the old recipe book over in his hands, but not opening it.

Kaelred lay nearby, head propped on a satchel. "I thought things would get easier after two trees. Guess I was wrong."

"They're not meant to be easy," Argolaith said.

Kaelred raised a brow. "You think the others who got their five trees walked through places like this?"

"No," Malakar said from across the fire. "I think each path reflects the person who walks it. And you…" he turned toward Argolaith, "…were always going to walk where the world had been forgotten."