The forest was quiet after the storm of spirit. No wind. No whisper. Only the steady pulse of something far away, threading itself into Argolaith's senses like a subtle rhythm beneath his breath.
He stood at the edge of the trial grove, the awakened seed cradled in his palm. Its glow had dimmed now, but it was still warm—warm in a way that didn't burn but remembered. The stone altar behind him no longer pulsed. The grove had gone still, satisfied, like a great beast that had judged and found him worthy.
And yet…
The call of the third tree wasn't what he expected.
Argolaith's brows furrowed, his blue eyes scanning the distant trees ahead as if he could see through them.
"It's calling," he said softly. "But it feels… wrong."
Kaelred looked up from sharpening his dagger. "Wrong how? Stronger?"
Argolaith shook his head slowly. "No. Smaller."
That word lingered.
