My world-tree system-Chapter 86 - 85 : Formation

The morning air was cool and slightly damp, filled with the earthy scents typical of Vollua at dawn. Golden rays pierced through the foliage of the Mother Tree, caressing the ground of mosses and roots with silent tenderness. Birds were already singing between the upper branches, unaware of the heavy responsibilities about to fall on a child like no other.

Foster walked slowly, arms crossed behind his back, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, but his mind focused on something much closer: the time had come to train Orëlas.

Since his return with the mana fruits, the child had grown even more, especially mentally. He was talking more, observing everything with adult concentration. He asked precise questions, sometimes disturbing in their lucidity. He didn’t often laugh, but sometimes smiled so sweetly and sincerely that it was almost painful. Foster could see him, feel what he was becoming.

He was not a child like the others.

And there would be no second chances.

Arriving at a small clearing away from the city, protected by a magical hedge that Lïanna had raised especially for the occasion, Foster stopped and turned around. Orëlas followed quietly behind, hands behind his back, bare feet, silver hair waving gently in the breeze.

- Are you sure you’re ready?" asked Foster calmly.

Orëlas stared at him with intense green eyes.

- I was ready yesterday. You’re the one who doubted.

Foster smirked. He couldn’t hide anything from him. He really couldn’t.

- Very well," he said. Then let’s get started.

He knelt on the ground, slowly placing one hand against the earth. With his other hand, he traced a simple circle in the air, then a rune. A ball of fire slowly appeared in his palm, swirling, hot but contained.

- Magic," he explained, "is like a breath we direct. It is born in the soul, channeled in the heart, and projected by the will.

He flicked his wrist. The fireball faded away.

- It can be gentle or violent, stable or unstable. It must never be a pure impulse, but a decision.

Orëlas nodded. He too sat down, imitating Foster’s posture. His little fingers anchored themselves in the earth.

- Breathe in. Feel what’s beneath you. Feel the warmth of the earth, its breath. Now close your eyes.

The child obeyed.

Foster watched him do it, watching his breathing, the slightest twitch.

- Forget your body. Let your breath become a vibration. Imagine the flame. Small. Alive. Not good, not bad. Just... there.

A long silence followed.

Then suddenly, without warning, a small flame appeared in Orëlas’ palm.

Steady. Silent. Perfect.

Foster’s eyes widened slightly. Not a spark. Not a chaotic twitch. A burning sphere, contained with the mastery of an experienced mage.

- By the roots..." he murmured.

Orëlas opened his eyes, unsurprised. He watched the flame dance in his hand, his head tilted slightly.

- Now I understand. She’s not dangerous. She’s just like me. If I scream, she screams. If I speak softly, she listens.

Foster remained silent for a moment. The silence in the clearing became almost sacred.

- You don’t just master the basics, Orëlas. You integrate them.

The child let the flame fade.

- You told me magic was a decision. I don’t want to hurt anyone. So I want her to listen.

Foster felt something knot in his chest. Admiration. Respect. But also a dull fear: how long would Orëlas keep this clarity of soul? At what point would this power, this growth, this heightened awareness... become too much to bear?

- You’re going to go far," he breathed.

Orëlas stood up, calmly dusting off his tunic.

- Yes, but not without you.

Foster stared at him for a long moment, then straightened up.

- Tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to locate your magic core.

Orëlas smiled.

- I’ll do that.

And without adding anything, he left the clearing, his light step treading the leaves without a sound.

Foster stood alone for a moment, watching where the flame had burned into the grass.

He’d just opened a door.

And what he’d seen on the other side... fascinated him as much as it frightened him.

The next day:

The next day, at sunrise, the mist still clung to the gnarled trunks of the forest, weaving silvery sheets between the roots like so many suspended veils. Foster was already waiting in the training clearing, sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, breathing slowly.

He didn’t look up when Orëlas arrived. He felt him. His aura was steadier than yesterday, denser. Not heavier, no. Just... better anchored.

- You’re early," Foster said calmly.

- And so are you," replied Orëlas, sitting down opposite him in the same posture.

Silence lingered for a few seconds, respectful.

- Today," Foster said at last, "you’re going to go deeper. The flame was the surface. An expression. What I want you to feel now is the source.

Orëlas frowned slightly.

- My core?

Foster opened his eyes slowly. He stared into the boy’s eyes.

- Yes. Your magic core. It can’t be seen, it can’t be heard. It doesn’t speak. But it pulses. Constantly. Like a star lodged in your belly.

He placed a hand on his own torso, just below the rib cage.

- Right there. Not in the heart. Lower down. Where emotions, instincts and memory meet.

Orëlas gently lowered his head, placing his palm on the same spot.

- It’s warm.

- Good. Now close your eyes. Don’t try to control it. Feel it. Like a beat, a flow. He’s yours, but you’re his too.

Silence fell again, broken only by birdsong and the whisper of wind in the foliage.

Orëlas breathed slowly. His face had relaxed. His forehead glistened slightly, not with sweat, but with concentration.

Foster was watching him. He wasn’t helping him, deliberately. For this step could not be guided. It had to be lived.

After several minutes, the air around Orëlas vibrated slightly.

- I see it," he murmured.

Foster straightened slightly.

- Describe it to me.

Orëlas frowned slightly.

- It’s... like a sphere of green and white light. It pulses, but not like a heart. It... resonates. As if singing without sound.

Foster felt a shiver run down his spine. This was exactly how the core was described in the oldest grimoires.

- Can you get closer?

Orëlas nodded very slowly.

- He lets me. He knows I’m here.

- Now ask him a question," Foster whispered. Not with words. With intent. Ask him: who am I?

A silence. Then Orëlas inhaled deeply, his shoulders tensing briefly.

- He answers.

- What does he say?

- He says nothing. He’s... showing me.

His eyelids twitched. His breath quickened slightly.

- I see myself. In a thousand reflections. Younger, older, hurt, angry, happy. I see what I can become. What I must not become. What I am.

He opened his eyes again abruptly, breathless, trembling.

Foster immediately grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him.

- Breathe. Take it easy. You’ve seen it. You’ve touched the root. Now you know what your core is.

Orëlas nodded slowly, pupils still dilated.

- It’s alive. It’s not a thing. It’s a consciousness.

Foster gently squeezed the back of his neck.

- And you’ve just taken your first step towards it.

They stood there for a moment in the silence.

- You’ve been exceptional," Foster said.

Orëlas smiled softly, his hands still resting on his belly.

- I feel... whole.

- That’s normal. It’s the first time you’ve really seen yourself.

And Foster meant it.

On the third morning, Orëlas was already waiting in the clearing when Foster arrived. Seated in the center, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees, he seemed totally motionless. But Foster knew this wasn’t waiting, or meditation. It was absorption.

He was watching the magic. He was listening to it.

- You’re connecting to it faster and faster," Foster observed as he approached.

Orëlas opened his eyes, two emeralds burning with concentration.

- I don’t have to look for him anymore. He’s here, all the time. It’s as if... I’m breathing with him.

Foster crouches down in front of him.

- That’s exactly how it is. Now that you’ve found it, your core is a companion, not a passive source. But be careful. The bond is intimate. If you get carried away, it will swallow you up.

Orëlas nodded slowly. He understood. Too well, in fact. Foster sensed a strange, almost frightening maturity in him. He didn’t have the patience of a child. He had the patience of a magician.

- Today, we’re going to strengthen the pipeline," Foster said, straightening up. We’re going to learn how to tap into your core... without overflowing.

He waved his hand in a circular motion. A fine flame emerged from his palm. Stable, soft.

- That’s control. You don’t have to extract the fire. You have to ask it to come to you, slowly, as if you were calling it in a low voice.

Orëlas stood up, closed his eyes and placed his hands in front of him, palms facing the sky.

He remained like that for a long time.

Foster didn’t intervene. He wanted to see if he understood.

Suddenly, his hands began to glow.

Not a sudden flash. Not a flare. Just a warm thread of light, like an ember coming to life.

Orëlas furrowed his brow slightly, and the flame grew... just a little.

- There, stop," Foster breathed.

Orëlas stopped dead in his tracks. The fire floated above his palms, perfectly steady, not crackling, not flickering.

- How do you feel?" asked Foster.

- It’s hot, but not like a burn. It’s like a light pressing against my hands.

- And your core?

- It’s pulsating gently. Not too fast. It looks at me.

Foster smiled. The phrasing was strange, but it said it all.

- You channeled it.

Orëlas opened his eyes again. He watched the flame with fascination, then extinguished it with a simple gesture.

- I have the impression... that if I wanted to, I could make it bigger, much bigger. But it would resist me.

Foster nodded.

- Because you’re not ready to contain more yet. And she knows it. That’s what well-channeled magic is: a pact with yourself.

Orëlas resumed his position, but this time he held out a single hand. He reopened the flame, a little faster, a little more intensely. No spillover. No trembling. Almost instinctive mastery.

Foster crossed his arms.

- We’ll stick to the fire for now. He’s impulsive, demanding, but clear. When you’ve mastered it, you can move on to wind, then earth. Water will come last. It’s the most difficult. It changes without warning.

Orëlas said nothing. He repeated the exercise in silence, calling the flame, extinguishing it, calling it back again.

Foster watched him, motionless. He could already see the beginnings of a born magician.