God’s Tree

Argolaith felt it again.

The steady drumbeat beneath his ribs, not his heart—but the tree's.

The seed of memory pulsed faintly within his cloak, echoing that rhythm, synchronizing with the great force that waited for him somewhere beyond the mountains.

The second tree was no longer just a destination.

It was calling him.

And he was answering.

They ran through jagged stone paths, the valley walls rising steep on either side.

The air was dry, heavy with dust and silence. No birds, no insects, no rustle of wind.

Just the sound of their feet striking rock and the distant hum of the seed.

Kaelred's voice echoed through the stillness. "I swear this place is cursed. Everything's too quiet. Even the rocks look like they're holding their breath."

Malakar's violet eyes burned faintly. "Because something is watching."

Argolaith didn't stop. He couldn't stop. His legs ached, lungs burned, but he welcomed it—the movement anchored him.

The farther he ran, the closer the pull became.

They reached the halfway point of the valley when Argolaith felt it—a shift in the air.

Not wind.

Not weather.

Movement.

Malakar slowed just enough to glance sideways. "Left ridge. High up."

Kaelred cursed, still running. "Tell me it's not another Hollowed!"

A flicker of motion across the stone.

Then another—just above the ridge's edge.

Dark shapes, swift and low to the ground.

Not Hollowed.

Not beasts.

Something else.

Argolaith pressed forward, faster now. "We don't stop. Whatever they are, they're not here to help."

As they kept running, the shapes began to follow.

Always along the cliffs—never attacking, never drawing closer. Just… watching.

Kaelred glanced back. "We've got company, and it's acting like it's waiting for something."

Malakar's voice was low. "Or someone."

Argolaith's focus never broke. "Let them wait."

The seed pulsed stronger now, its rhythm quickening. The ground beneath them sloped downward into a narrow pass of split stone and black sand, funneling them deeper into the valley's heart.

The second tree's presence surged again—stronger, nearer.

It was close.

The ground dropped.

Without warning, the path plunged into a deep stone gully, and Argolaith leapt—sliding down the slope of gravel and rock, barely keeping his balance.

Malakar drifted like a shadow behind him.

Kaelred hit the incline and tumbled once, swore loudly, and then caught himself. "This better be worth it!"

They hit the basin floor hard, dirt and dust exploding beneath their feet.

And in that moment—the watchers vanished.

Ahead of them, the gully narrowed into a single crack in the cliff wall.

It was too perfect.

Too straight.

Too intentional.

Argolaith slowed just enough to approach it carefully.

The stone beyond it pulsed faintly with green light.

Malakar whispered, "A path carved by the tree itself."

Kaelred looked from the glowing crack to Argolaith. "So, what now?"

Argolaith stepped forward, never hesitating.

"We go through."

And without another word, they ran again—

into the light.

The world blurred beneath them.

Two weeks.

Fourteen days.

Over half a million miles.

And they never stopped running.

Not truly.

Not for long.

Just enough to chew a few enchanted herbs, to gulp down an elixir, to catch a breath before launching forward again.

The second tree's call had become more than a pull—

It was a thread woven into Argolaith's bones, a voice pulsing beneath his skin.

He could feel it now.

Close.

Only 400,000 miles remained.

And they would not slow down.

Kaelred hadn't touched the ground in days.

Malakar had pulled him into his shadow early into the second stretch of their journey, after the second night when Kaelred had collapsed with a groan, muttering curses about "inhuman monsters" and "sprinting gods."

He now drifted silently in the lich's magic, suspended in cool, humming darkness.

Occasionally, he would grumble from inside.

"Still not funny, Malakar."

Malakar, as always, smirked. "I find it endlessly amusing."

Kaelred's voice echoed faintly. "I'm filing an official complaint when this is over."

Argolaith chuckled—but it didn't slow his stride. His feet struck the ground like a war drum—measured, powerful, relentless.

The world changed as they ran.

They crossed scorched plains where the sun never seemed to set.

Dead forests of white, petrified trees whose bark was carved with symbols no one dared read.

Winding canyons filled with strange, low hums—voices of wind or something deeper.

A sea of glass, shattered into fragments underfoot, where even their reflections seemed wrong.

Through it all, Argolaith kept his pace.

Even Malakar, ageless and immune to fatigue, had to admire the endurance of the living.

"Your body is beginning to align with the seed," he observed one evening, as they moved beneath a twilight sky.

Argolaith didn't respond with words.

He simply ran faster.

Though they pressed on, the strain was still real.

Argolaith's muscles throbbed, his heart thundered. His legs felt like stone some nights—

But he never stopped.

Every few hours, he'd reach into his cloak, pull a stalk of glowing bluegrass or bite into a bitter root from his pack—magical plants they'd gathered earlier in the journey. Each one bought him another hour, another ten miles, another push forward.

At times, the world blurred.

At times, the path before him twisted.

But the seed pulsed steady in his chest, guiding him like a star that never moved.

He followed.

He chased it.

On the seventh day, Kaelred's voice rose from the shadow again.

"Do either of you even remember what walking feels like?"

Silence.

"Okay, cool. I'm talking to myself again. That's fine. I'm fine."

On the ninth day:

"I had dreams once, you know. A normal life. A tavern. Maybe a nice dog. Not this."

On the eleventh:

"Do either of you actually sleep? I miss sleep. I miss warmth. I miss my feet."

Malakar's calm voice echoed, "You are welcome to return to your feet."

Kaelred's reply: "No. No, I've made peace with this now."

On the fourteenth day, the air changed again.

They crested a ridge and saw it—

Far ahead, but no longer impossibly distant:

A great formation of stone, bent and twisted, rising like fingers from the earth. The sky above it pulsed with faint green-gold light.

Argolaith stopped only briefly, his breath sharp but controlled.

Malakar emerged beside him, and from his shadow, Kaelred rolled out with a dramatic groan, clutching his ribs.

"I think I left my soul back in week one," he muttered.

But he stood.

And he looked.

Even he could feel it now.

The second tree was close.

Malakar's violet flames flared faintly. "Four hundred thousand miles. That is all that remains."

Argolaith nodded. "Then we run."

Kaelred moaned. "Of course we do."

And once more—

They ran.