God's Tree-Chapter 187: The Will of the Rootheart

The white-haired woman's violet flame surged, curling upward like a serpent, illuminating the shattered walls of the ancient chamber. Her soldiers moved in formation behind her, blades drawn, enchantments flickering over their armor like mirrored smoke.

Malakar didn't move. Neither did Thae'Zirak.

But Kaelred stepped in beside Argolaith, daggers already spinning in his fingers.

"Alright, I guess diplomacy's off the table."

Argolaith raised his sword, his rune beginning to pulse, echoing the steady beat of the Rootheart behind them. Its glow began to intensify, shadows cast in green and gold stretching across the fractured floor.

"You don't have to do this," he said firmly.

The woman didn't respond.

She simply pointed her staff—and the violet fire lanced forward like a spear.

Argolaith's sword flashed up to block it, but the fire struck faster than his muscles could move.

Except—

It never reached him.

A wall of green light erupted between Argolaith and the incoming flame.

It wasn't magic. Not in the usual sense. It wasn't cast or summoned. It was grown.

The flame hissed and scattered as it struck the barrier—a living weave of translucent roots, rising from the floor like vines forged of memory and light. The pulse of the Rootheart flared, now beating like a second heart in every chest.

"What—" Kaelred blinked, backing up.

The roots expanded, twisting through the air like sentient serpents. They didn't lash out—they protected, weaving between Argolaith, Malakar, Kaelred, and Thae'Zirak like a dome.

The white-haired woman frowned.

"So it chooses you," she said, narrowing her gaze.

Argolaith stared at the protective shield in awe. The glow pulsed in time with his heartbeat. With each second, he felt the tree's will more clearly—not words, but intent.

It was protecting its chosen.

And his companions.

They weren't just traveling with him.

They were part of his path.

The flame-wreathed soldiers struck next—two blades of crackling energy slashing down toward the dome.

The Rootheart's defense shifted—roots moving like silk, absorbing the blows with no damage, then curling outward to push the attackers back with a forceful surge of light.

The chamber trembled.

The attackers staggered away, stunned but not wounded.

Malakar finally spoke, his voice echoing with something deeper than his own power.

"The tree knows."

The white-haired woman's expression flickered with something that might have been frustration… or fear.

"It's responding to him," she said. "To all of them."

She stepped forward, slowly, staff lowered now, not in surrender—but in recognition.

"I wasn't prepared for it to awaken."

Argolaith stepped out from the center of the root-shield. The light let him pass unharmed, vines parting gently.

"You don't have to keep trying," he said, voice steady. "Yuneith has chosen. I don't know why, but it has. If you fight now, you're not fighting us."

He pointed toward the pulsing heart behind him.

"You're fighting it."

For a long moment, there was only the hum of magic in the air.

Then the white-haired woman turned slightly, exhaling through her nose. freewebnøvel.coɱ

"I will not fight the will of a sacred tree."

Her gaze landed on Malakar.

"But I still remember what he did."

"So does he," Argolaith said.

She didn't reply.

But she nodded once.

And turned.

Her warriors hesitated, but when she motioned, they followed her up the steps—slowly, cautiously, eyes never leaving the root-wrapped chamber.

The violet flame dimmed.

And the silence returned.

Kaelred let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Well. That could've been worse."

Thae'Zirak rumbled softly, wings folding. "The Rootheart defended you."

"No," Malakar said, stepping beside Argolaith.

"It accepted him."

The roots slowly unwound, retreating into the earth, the light fading but not vanishing. They remained beneath the surface now—ready to rise again if called.

Argolaith looked toward the ancient tree fragment still suspended in the center of the room.

He understood now.

The trials weren't over.

But the tree had recognized him.

And more than that—

It had accepted the path he walked.

No matter who he brought with him.

The tension in the temple slowly faded, like a storm withdrawing into the clouds.

The white-haired woman and her companions had disappeared into the mist above, their purpose paused—or perhaps diverted entirely—by the will of Yuneith. The Rootheart had quieted, its glow no longer flaring, but steady and strong, a slow beat echoing deep into the stone floor beneath their feet.

But the temple itself still had more to offer.

Argolaith stood near the base of the Rootheart platform, the dagger from the earlier memory still strapped to his back. He stared at the walls, the floor, the very breath of the place, feeling the silence pulling at him—not to rest.

But to listen.

"There's something else here," he said.

Kaelred, still crouched by the extinguished fire, raised a brow. "I thought we already walked through enough creepy stone halls and root-soaked ruins to last a lifetime."

Malakar's voice was calm. "No. He's right."

The lich turned toward one of the rear walls of the chamber. A faint breeze stirred the air—from below.

"There's a path beneath the Rootheart," Malakar said. "One even I couldn't sense before. The tree was hiding it."

Argolaith stepped forward, the rune on his forearm glowing faintly.

As he neared the edge of the Rootheart's pedestal, a segment of stone shifted underfoot. Ancient mechanisms stirred. Dust puffed into the air as part of the floor slid open with a heavy grind, revealing a spiral stairwell leading deeper into the unknown.

Without hesitation, Argolaith descended.

Kaelred groaned but followed. "One of these days, I'd like to not climb into some forgotten underground vault."

The stairwell was long, winding, and cut from a single unbroken sheet of black stone. The walls were smoother here, the air colder—not with the chill of age, but of preserved power.

They emerged into a circular chamber, its center dominated by a stone basin filled with liquid silver that shimmered without moving. Dozens of coiled serpents were carved into the walls, their eyes set with faintly glowing white gems. Runes danced across the basin's rim, alive with old magic.

Thae'Zirak murmured, "Za'reth's chamber."

Malakar nodded. "A memory vault. Not unlike the vessels of the upper realms… but older. Wilder."

Argolaith approached the basin and touched the edge.

The silver flared, and light spread outward across the chamber walls, forming a scene—

Za'reth.

Coiled around a tree that pulsed with stars.

Its voice deep, ancient, echoing through the magic itself:

"To the one who finds this… I failed. I could not protect Yuneith when it was taken. But I leave behind what I learned. The Hand of Nelrith did not just move the tree—it marked it. It left behind a wound in the root-pattern of Morgoth."

The image shifted.

A black claw dragging itself across glowing roots.

A flare of blue fire where it struck.

"If the tree is ever to be restored… you must find what was left behind when it was torn from its cradle. The fracture is not only in the land. It is in the tree's memory."

The image faded.

Kaelred muttered, "So there's a piece missing?"

Malakar's gaze darkened. "Not missing. Displaced."

Argolaith looked at the silver basin and then turned toward Malakar.

"You knew about this kind of thing. Before. Back when you were in the greater realms."

Malakar didn't speak at first.

But Argolaith pressed. "What did you do? Why are they really hunting you?"

Malakar's shoulders rose and fell. Then he turned, his voice distant—not tired, but heavy with memory.

"I wasn't born in the greater realms," he said. "I was born here. In Morgoth. Human. Forgotten. Like most. But I heard the call of my five trees… and I walked their paths. Alone."

"You awakened your magic?" Argolaith asked quietly.

Malakar nodded. "I did. And I didn't become a lich then—not yet. But the magic that bloomed inside me was… wrong."

Kaelred stood straighter. "Undeath?"

"Yes," Malakar replied. "The moment I awakened, I could see the thread between life and what came after. And I knew how to pull it."

He looked away.

"The gods didn't welcome that. But others noticed. From the lesser halls of the realms, I rose. Studied. Climbed. And when they found me again… I wasn't human anymore. But I wasn't divine either."

"You were something in between," Argolaith said.

"I was becoming."

"And then?" Kaelred asked.

Malakar turned to face them again. "I tried to preserve a dying race with what I'd learned. I failed. They called it a defilement. And I… escaped. I've walked alone ever since."

Thae'Zirak's voice rumbled low. "He earned his exile. But he didn't choose corruption. He chose knowledge."

Argolaith nodded slowly.

He looked again to the basin, the echo of Za'reth's voice lingering in the air.

Yuneith had been wounded. The memory of its home—fractured.

And now that memory called to him.

"We need to find the piece that was lost," he said.

Malakar stepped forward. "And seal the scar before it becomes something worse."