God's Tree-Chapter 115: The Sword That Calls

Kaelred slid off the horse, immediately collapsing onto the nearest crate.

"Okay. City reached. Can I die now?"

Argolaith smirked. "No."

Kaelred groaned. "I knew you were going to say that."

Malakar glanced toward the caravan leader. "Where are you taking the cargo?"

The leader dismounted, brushing dust from his cloak. "To the upper district."

Argolaith raised a brow. "That where your buyer is?"

The leader gave him a knowing look. "That's where you'll get your answers."

Argolaith exchanged a glance with Malakar.

Something wasn't right.

The Hollowed's attack, the way the Wardens let them through without hesitation, and now—this mysterious upper district.

He wasn't sure if Volcrest was a safe haven or a trap.

But one thing was certain.

They were already too deep to turn back.

The city of Volcrest pulsed with an energy Argolaith couldn't quite name. It wasn't the simple liveliness of a city like Gren or the cold emptiness of the abandoned ruins they had crossed before.

It was something else.

A quiet hum in the air.

A weight pressing against his skin.

As if the city itself was watching.

Even as they moved through the lower district, Argolaith kept his senses sharp. He had seen danger hidden behind walls before. Volcrest felt like a place where secrets were currency, and trust was a fool's game.

The lower district was a tangled mess of narrow alleyways and stacked buildings, their rooftops connected by twisting wooden bridges and metal walkways.

People moved through the streets with purpose—hooded figures slipping between shadows, armored men watching from balconies. The air smelled of burnt incense, old parchment, and damp stone.

Kaelred, still sore from the journey, stretched his arms. "This place has a real 'stab-you-in-an-alley' vibe."

Argolaith smirked. "That's because someone's probably planning to do exactly that."

Kaelred sighed. "Good. I was starting to miss that feeling."

Malakar remained silent, but his violet eyes flickered as he scanned their surroundings. If he was on edge, that meant Volcrest was more than just untrustworthy. It was dangerous.

The caravan leader walked ahead, leading them toward a massive staircase carved directly into the rock of the city's northern cliffs. It stretched high above the lower district, vanishing into the thick morning mist that clung to the towering structures above.

Two heavily armed guards flanked the entrance, their armor engraved with complex runic patterns. They carried polearms crackling with faint blue energy—the same magic woven into the city gates.

The upper district was guarded.

Which meant not everyone was allowed inside.

Kaelred frowned. "I'm guessing we're not just walking in?"

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The caravan leader ignored him, stepping forward. Without a word, he retrieved the silver emblem he had shown at the gates.

The guards didn't hesitate.

One of them tapped his polearm against the stone, and a low hum resonated through the air. The staircase shimmered—a protective ward fading as the path was unlocked.

"Proceed," the guard said flatly.

Argolaith exchanged a glance with Malakar.

This wasn't just security.

This was a city hiding something.

They climbed the winding staircase, their boots echoing against the smooth stone.

As they ascended, the city changed.

The upper district was a different world.

Gone were the twisting alleyways and hidden figures of the lower streets. Here, the buildings stood tall and precise, made of polished blackstone and reinforced with glowing runes.

The people moved differently.

They were not just citizens.

They were scholars, enchanters, high-ranking officials. Their robes bore sigils, their weapons were refined. There was no simple chaos here—only strict control.

Kaelred let out a low whistle. "Okay. Fancy."

Argolaith's gaze sharpened. "Controlled."

Kaelred nodded. "Yeah. That too."

The caravan leader led them through a set of massive obsidian gates, guarded by more Wardens of Volcrest.

They stepped into a courtyard of black marble, where pillars of runes lined the pathways, radiating a low, steady pulse of magic.

At the center of the courtyard stood a grand structure—a towering fortress-like building, its doors sealed with ancient sigils.

This was no merchant's guild.

No simple meeting hall.

This was a sanctum.

A place of power.

Kaelred folded his arms. "So. Are we finally going to get some answers?"

The caravan leader stopped before the massive doors.

He turned to face them.

"You survived the Hollowed. You've earned the right to know."

His gaze locked onto Argolaith's.

"Inside these walls is what they were after."

He placed a hand against the sigil-sealed door.

And as the runes began to glow—

Argolaith felt a pulse in his chest.

A pull.

Something inside was calling to him.

The moment the sanctum doors began to open, Argolaith felt it—

A pull.

It wasn't like the second tree's distant, ever-present call.

It was sharper. Closer.

A voice in the silence.

A whisper in the bones.

A sword was calling him.

The doors unsealed with a low, resonating hum, the runes pulsing as ancient mechanisms clicked into place.

Beyond the entrance lay a vast chamber, its towering walls lined with blackstone pillars carved with flowing silver inscriptions. The air was thick with preserved magic, an energy so old and woven into the stone itself that Argolaith could feel it pressing against his skin.

At the center of the chamber, beneath a vaulted ceiling carved with celestial runes, stood a pedestal of dark iron.

And upon it—

A sword.

The weapon was unlike any Argolaith had ever seen.

Its hilt was wrapped in silvered leather, its crossguard shaped like the outstretched wings of some forgotten beast. The blade itself was a deep, almost black steel, its edges lined with faint glowing inscriptions that pulsed as if breathing.

The closer he stepped, the stronger the pull became.

Not just in his mind.

In his blood.

His fingers itched to touch it.

The caravan leader turned to face him.

"So, you hear it too."

Argolaith barely glanced at him. "What is it?"

The leader's gaze darkened. "A relic of Volcrest. A weapon not meant to be wielded."

Kaelred let out a short, humorless laugh. "And yet you kept it in a caravan, knowing full well that nightmare creatures wanted it?"

The leader's jaw tightened. "We had no choice."

Argolaith wasn't listening.

His focus was locked on the sword.

Malakar stepped forward, his violet eyes narrowing. "This blade is tied to something ancient."

The leader nodded. "It belonged to the First Warden. A blade forged at the birth of Volcrest's great defenses. It was meant to be a weapon against the Hollowed. But over time… it became something else."

Kaelred frowned. "Something worse?"

The leader hesitated.

Then: "No one who has wielded it has ever remained the same."

Argolaith's pulse thundered in his ears.

He wasn't sure if it was the magic of the sword, the weight of its history, or something deeper.

Something older.

Something waiting.

He stepped forward.

The leader tensed. "If you take it—"

Argolaith reached out.

His fingers closed around the hilt.

And then—

Everything changed.