The cold wind of the abyss dissipated as soon as Arien and Nyra took the last step across the stone bridge. The bluish light of the crystal Arien carried flickered, wavering like a beacon in the mist, until it settled into an almost reverential glow. The world around them changed: the silence of the mineral labyrinth was replaced by the living breath of an underground forest, where the air seemed saturated with ancient intentions and forgotten secrets.
Before them, the gallery of twisted roots opened into a vast black lake, so still that even the light seemed to drown upon touching it. Centuries-old trunks leaned over, some brushing the water with long branches, others forming arches as if bowing to the stone altar raised at the center of the lake. Upon the altar, moss and roots drew spirals, suggesting that time there was not measured in hours, but in memories deposited.
The lake's shore was dense with dark leaves. The ground beneath Arien's feet seemed to pulse slowly, as if sensing their presence. The black waters reflected not only their silhouettes but distorted their faces, returning multiple gazes: theirs and those who had come before.
They advanced slowly. Each step was an involuntary reverence. The sound of leaves underfoot echoed like a warning—or a summons. The scent of the water was mineral and deep, mingled with the perfume of burnt incense and damp wood, as ancient as the stories of the desert.
As they neared the edge, Arien hesitated, feeling the weight of the scene and the latent presence of something still unnamed. Nyra stopped beside him, eyes fixed on the altar, her face illuminated by the glowing roots on the ceiling.
Arien (in a low voice): — "It's here. This is what was calling us…"
Nyra placed her hand on his shoulder, the gesture as gentle as it was firm, and replied without taking her eyes from the lake:
— "In the heart of this forest, all roots meet. The altar is where memories cease to be only pain and become seed. It's an invitation, but also a challenge."
For a moment, time seemed to pause. The waters of the lake stirred lightly, forming concentric circles radiating from the altar, as if something beneath the surface had awakened. The reflection of the roots glowed brighter, illuminating the circle of trunks on the far shore, exactly where a trail of stones formed a natural bridge, leading to the next rite.
Arien looked at Nyra. There was respect and fear, but also an inevitable acceptance—there, there was no turning back. Together, they followed the stone path, crossing the lake's edge, the roots above vibrating as they approached the circle of trunks.
At the edge of the clearing, colossal trunks rose, twisted, their surfaces marked by scars and inscriptions from immemorial times. The air grew heavier, more humid, filled with primordial scents—wet earth, ancient moss, incense, and something sweet, like the echo of a forgotten childhood.
Silver leaves hung motionless, without wind, but whispered at the slightest movement. The ground was a living carpet, pulsing with ancestral memories. Everything there seemed to observe and judge, each detail composing a dreamlike scene between reality and memory.
Arien felt the weight of the crossing, not only on his body but on his spirit. He looked at Nyra: ahead, she seemed part of the roots themselves, yet also exiled from them. It was impossible to know whether the next step would lead them to the past, the future, or an eternal cycle of roots and secrets.
And then, as if obeying an invisible choreography, they stepped together into the heart of the underground forest, where every root was a stroke of fate and every leaf, a fragment of all they needed—or feared—to recall.
The underground forest revealed itself as a world apart, a silent sanctuary where light did not enter through cracks, but through roots glowing on the ceiling. It was like walking beneath an inverted sky. The air was humid, heavy with ancient odors—moss, living wood, memories.
Arien: — "Was all this under the labyrinth?"
Nyra: — "Not all. Some parts… move. The forest shifts over time. It's as if it remembers where it needs to be."
Cautious steps led Arien and Nyra between massive trees with dark, scarred trunks. These marks formed spirals and gashes, like deep scars in the wood. The trees were so old and close together that in some places, their trunks nearly touched.
The ground was damp, covered in a thick layer of dark leaves. The soil sank slightly with each step, muffling their sound. Among the trees, large roots emerged, forming arches and low obstacles. In several places, Arien and Nyra had to crouch to pass. Whenever they touched the roots with feet or hands, they felt the cool, damp, rough surface, as if they were touching living stones.
The air was heavy and humid, smelling of wet earth, ancient wood, and a hint of burnt incense. There was no wind. The environment was silent, except for the sound of water droplets falling from leaves or moss on the trees. Occasionally, they heard a low groaning from the trees, as if they moved slightly.
The blade Arien carried illuminated the path, casting a weak light on trees and roots. The light reflected off the wet surfaces, making small points sparkle in the dark. Sometimes, a low mist covered their feet, making the ground hard to see. Around them, silver leaves hung from the branches, unmoving.
Nyra led the way. Once, she stopped to touch a thick root blocking the trail, running her hand over it as if testing its texture. Then she moved on. Arien watched everything closely, feeling a chill on his back, as if the whole place was watching them.
Several times, both had the impression they were being observed, but saw no eyes or animals. It was just the strange sense of not being alone there.
At one point, a thick root slowly rose before them. Its knots cracked like ancient bones.
Ancient Root: — "Nyra… daughter of the denied leaves… has returned."
Nyra stopped. The confidence on her face vanished.
Nyra: — "I didn't expect to be remembered."
Ancient Root: — "The trees do not forget. They only wait."
Silence settled between them, dense and laden with expectation. Arien felt the weight of the forest's invisible gazes, a presence not hostile, but commanding respect. He took a deep breath, heart tight—he was a stranger before an ancient tribunal. His blade, alive with the energy of the Static Flame, began to vibrate subtly; the bluish light of the crystal flickered, reflecting the tension of the moment.
Nyra stepped forward first, and Arien followed with measured steps. They crossed arches of roots and trunks rising like columns until the path widened into a circular clearing, protected by ancestral trunks.
At the center, a depression in the ground held a dark mirror of water, surrounded by silver leaves. Above, suspended leaves whispered softly, swirling at the slightest movement, as if memories there never truly slept.
Nyra: — "Here… is where memories are planted."
She knelt, touching the water. Instantly, reflections began to surface—not from the surface, but from within the water. Arien saw images of Nyra's childhood, her first rites in Nostraïl, and the scene of her departure… when she turned her back on the druids.
Arien: — "Did you run away?"
Nyra: — "No. I chose. But every choice here is seen as betrayal."
The nearby roots moved. From the ground, a figure rose, made of living bark, with green eyes like crystallized sap. A druidess. Or something even older.
Sap Guardian: — "You have returned, Nyra of the broken roots. Not to heal, but to remember."
Nyra: — "And he comes with me." (pointing to Arien)
Sap Guardian: — "The flame does not belong to the grove. But… it also remembers."
Arien stepped forward. The water mirror shone in response.
Arien: — "If this forest lives on memories, then show me what it keeps of Mahran."
The Guardian fell silent. The roots around trembled. The water stirred and turned red.
The mirror showed the image of the village… but not its destruction. He saw Khron talking to a hooded woman in front of the central well. In the background, the sky burned with an inverted light—it was the dawn of the Static Flame.
Arien: — "Who was she?"
Nyra: — "Someone who might still walk this forest… or some neighboring plane."
Sap Guardian: — "If you wish to advance, you'll need to cross the Hollow Tree. There, whispers do not forgive."
For a moment, the Guardian regarded them both in silence, as if weighing their souls. Then he vanished among the roots. A trail covered in moss opened before them, glimmering in the bluish light of Arien's blade. They followed, feeling the air change: the humidity thickened and an ancestral chill ran over their skin, heralding the crossing.
Soon ahead, the path narrowed until it ended before a gigantic trunk, wide enough to swallow an entire house. The dark, irregular opening formed an arch—the entrance to the Hollow Tree's interior. No wind came from there, only a gloom cut by blueish beams of light dancing among the living wood's fibers.
As soon as they entered, the silence was broken. At first, only indistinct murmurs could be heard; but with each step, the whispers gained form: names, phrases, fragments of memories—some familiar voices, others distorted and strange, coming from the depths of time and pain. The sound reverberated through the trunk, making the passage long, heavy, and full of unspoken questions.
Líara's Voice (whisper): — "You left me, Arien…"
Khron's Voice (whisper): — "You are made of ruin."
Nyra: — "Don't listen. Only those who doubt hear too much."
The crossing was long. The air was dense. The crystal set in Arien's blade burned intensely, but did not hurt. He felt… clarity. When they left the Tree, they were in a new level of the forest, where the roots touched the ceiling and the ground was a living carpet.
At the center, another figure awaited—not made of bark or moss, but of pure memory. It was the image of a boy whom Arien recognized as himself, before Mahran's destruction.
Living Memory: — "Didn't you promise to protect everyone?"
Arien: — "I was just a boy."
Living Memory: — "And now?"
Arien: — "Now… I am the promise."
The figure disappeared. In its place, a small seed glimmered. Nyra picked it up.
Nyra: — "It's the key to the next rite. A ritual of remembrance and pain."
Arien: — "Let's go together."
Nyra: — "No. Some parts… I have to cross alone."
He nodded. The roots parted for her. Arien stayed, staring into the mirror, which now reflected not memories… but possibilities.
Arien: — "I am the flame that remembers. And this forest will still recognize me."
The silence answered with acceptance.