The forest remained still, as if holding its breath.
Argolaith stood before the First Tree, the small container of its lifeblood resting in his palm.
A single drop.
Yet it felt as if he was holding the weight of an entire world.
His thoughts raced—his very existence had been questioned, rewritten.
He wasn't part of the Grand Design.
He wasn't even fully from Morgoth.
His parents came from the Greater Realms, a place he had only heard whispers of, a place mortals were never meant to reach.
It made sense now—why he had always felt different, why the world seemed to bend around him in subtle ways.
And yet—
Did it change anything?
Argolaith clenched his jaw.
No.
He was still himself.
This truth didn't change his goals.
It didn't change his purpose.
He would find the rest of his trees.
He would claim their power.
And he would forge his own path.
