Time seemed suspended in the clearing where Arien waited. The world around him had become a silent theater, where every tree, root, and leaf seemed to watch, both accomplice and witness to that instant in which past and present touched like held breaths. The air carried a weight that did not come from heat or humidity, but from something ancestral, as if the very soil remembered the rites performed there, decades or centuries before, by other wanderers and exiles.
The roots around them did not close again, remaining raised in sinuous arches, like sentinels that refused rest. It was as if the clearing had been designed not just to house the rite, but to ensure that no gaze or memory escaped the vigilance of the forest. With each slight gust of wind—if wind even existed there—silver leaves swayed with the sound of forgotten little bells, whispering names, memories, and unfulfilled promises.
Arien felt the weight of that silence with an intensity that ached in his bones. His thoughts, once restless after so many trials, now seemed to sink into a sea of uncertainty and omens. Sitting near the water mirror that reflected the elongated shadows of the roots, he noticed how his own figure's reflection seemed less clear—as if even the water respected the gravity of the ritual about to take place.
The seed that Nyra carried—so small and yet pulsing like a heart separated from the body—seemed to contain the weight of generations. It had been forged with memories rescued not only by her, but also by the bond, ever tightening, that she and Arien had built throughout their journey through the labyrinth and the underground forest. In that seed, there was a story that belonged not only to Nyra, but to all who had betrayed or been betrayed by their roots.
Arien followed Nyra with his gaze as she walked toward the center of the clearing. There was a solemnity in her steps, a studied slowness—not fear, nor resignation, but a profound respect for the power of that ritual. Every inch she covered seemed to open a wound in the very earth, and Arien had the impression that, with each step, the roots bent slightly, as if in greeting.
Even from a distance, Arien could see how Nyra's body oscillated between vulnerability and the strength that only those who have been broken can carry. In her hand, the blade pulsed with a living light, reflecting every hesitation, every silent promise made to that clearing. The glow followed each gesture, as if sharing the weight of the choice hanging in the air. And for a moment, Arien realized that perhaps, there, all hearts—his, Nyra's, the forest's—beat as one, guided by the same ancient and inevitable lament.
All around, the sanctuary seemed to breathe with the two of them, exuding scents of wet earth, ancient sap, and a subtle bitterness. Arien felt that, there, the whole forest acted as judge, and even the shadows of the branches carried expectations: not only for the outcome of the rite, but for what Nyra dared to challenge—and for what he, as a witness, was also willing to face.
At that moment, more than ever, Arien understood that certain rituals are not performed solely so that one soul may be judged, but so that all witnesses may be transformed. And when Nyra stopped in the center, eyes fixed ahead, Arien knew he would never leave that place the same—regardless of the outcome of that ancestral rite.
A ceremonial silence settled between them, heavy and reverent. Arien felt a sudden urge to break that distance—not only physical, but one of fate. The words came out as an inevitable whisper, carrying hope and fear:
— "Will you come back?" Arien asked, his voice hoarse, almost fearing the answer.
Nyra turned her face toward him, holding his gaze for a moment before continuing on.
— "If I remember who I am."
And then, without hesitation, Nyra disappeared among the spiraled trunks, absorbed by the corridor of roots writhing beneath the earth like sleeping serpents. Her movement seemed to alter the very air of the clearing—a thread of presence snapped, leaving behind a denser silence and an almost painful absence. Arien stood still for a long while, feeling the echo of Nyra's steps fading among the trees. The world seemed to hold its breath, and only then, defeated by the wait, did he allow himself to sit beside the water mirror, which now reflected only his own visage. In his hand, the blade—alive with the fragment of the Static Flame—pulsed with a soft light, matching the cadence of his restless heart. It was not a warning, but a mute reflection of the silent metamorphosis traversing not only Nyra, but also himself.
Time there ceased to be measured in minutes. Hours slipped away like roots growing in darkness, while Arien drifted between wakefulness and reverie, not knowing whether he was praying, waiting, or merely surviving the weight of uncertainty.
Until the forest breathed differently. A new pulse ran through the earth—a deep sound, like the muffled drum of a heart buried beneath the ground. The air filled with a bitter fragrance, like incense burning for longing, and silver leaves began to fall in slow motion around Arien, as if the entire world took part in the rite.
Instinctively, Arien stood. He felt a different energy passing through his bones, a silent certainty that something had changed. In front of him, a path opened where there had only been living wall before: the roots curved, forming an ancient, majestic arch, inviting him to step forward. He crossed the natural portal, feeling destiny pull him like an invisible current.
The corridor that unfolded was made of living wood, but pulsed with a distinct energy from other parts of the forest. The walls emitted a discreet warmth, almost maternal, and with every step Arien took, the rustic surfaces whispered names. Names that echoed in his memory, others he had never dared to pronounce. They were voices in whispers, mingling with the rush of blood, as if the forest itself wished to remind him of who he was—and of what he needed to leave behind.
With each new step, the murmurs of the walls turned into clearer voices, as if the roots gained tongues to speak directly to his innermost self. At first, they were only indistinct echoes, but soon, interwoven with the beat of his own heart, came phrases that cut deeper than any silence.
Unknown voice:
— "The oath was never just yours."
Voice of his mother:
— "You saw the fire. But you didn't see who carried it."
These words hovered in the air, reverberating like open scars between past and present. Arien felt his knees falter, but kept moving forward, driven by the need to understand—or at least witness.
At the end of the corridor, a circular clearing opened, with twelve thick roots forming a ring. In the center, Nyra knelt. The seed shone in her hands. Before her, three entities made of roots, shadows, and mist.
Entity 1: — "Daughter of the betrayed roots, what have you brought to plant?"
Nyra: — "Memory. And pain."
She lifted the seed. The entities took it, and then the space distorted. Arien saw memories emerging around the clearing—visions projected like reflections on suspended water. It was the story of Nyra's mother, the forbidden union with an ancestral spirit, the tribe's rejection, the birth marked by doubt.
Entity 2: — "You bear the name of an unjudged crime."
Nyra: — "Then judge me."
The forest trembled. A circle of roots rose around her. Arien ran to the edge but could not cross. The roots stopped him—not with force, but with memories.
He saw Líara lying motionless.
Khron turning away the day he left.
His mother telling him to "come back soon."
Arien: — "Show her who she is... and let me see her too."
In the center of the ritual, the entities surrounded Nyra. The seed split into three: a golden light, a living ember, and a spiraled shadow.
Entity 3: — "Choose. Not all. Just one."
Nyra hesitated. She touched the shadow. Then the light. Finally, she chose the ember.
Nyra: — "I don't want to forget. Nor deny. I want to carry it."
The ember entered her chest. The roots enveloped her. For a moment, she disappeared.
Arien shouted: — "NYRA!"
Then, the roots slowly retracted.
She stood, her eyes darker. A new scar marked her skin, running from neck to shoulder. But there was steadiness in her gaze. She had passed the rite.
Nyra: — "Pain is only the first step."
She fell to her knees, exhausted. Arien caught her.
Arien: — "You chose not to forget."
Nyra: — "Because to forget... would be to betray those who bled for me."
The forest murmured in approval.
And when the two returned the same way, they found the water mirror awaiting them—but something had changed. Now, its surface reflected not only their images, but also the marks of the newly acquired scars, the choices made, and the memory they carried together. Behind them, twelve roots rose like ancestral sentinels, marking the end of one rite and the beginning of a new journey.