Sign Of The Infernal Root

The Middle Trunk's sky was dark, as though veiled in an unseen shroud of ash. From the high balcony of the Wardens' Academy, Aren watched the mist far below, faintly concealing the scars left by the second wave's assault. Though the distance between the Canopy and the Middle Trunk was vast, the echoes of the battle days ago still lingered in the air like a wound yet to heal.

The tolling of the alarm bells had ceased, replaced by the heavy, mournful resonance of the soul-bells—struck only when many Wardens had fallen. Along the main branches of the Canopy, black Warden banners fluttered, each fold a silent testament to the lives lost.

Aren gripped the metal pendant that hung against his chest, his gaze fixed on the mist-shrouded Middle Trunk. If I had been there… could I have saved them? The question dug at old wounds, stirring memories of Lyra, Finn, and Marin—faces twisted by fear and loss that returned every time he closed his eyes.

The Silent Mark on his left hand pulsed harder, resonating with the turmoil in his chest—not just a throb, but a searing heat that sank into his bones. Why are you trembling? Aren clenched his teeth. Are you mocking me because I can do nothing?

Since the surviving Wardens had returned from the Middle Trunk, tension had filled the Academy. The older cadets, especially those of Vanguard and Warden Trainee rank, were busy tending to their wounds or repairing shattered equipment. Many bore scars that would never fade; others had not returned at all.

In the training hall, Kael Draven stared at the glowing projection that listed the fallen.

"Fourty Wardens, three Vanguards… and over fifty critically wounded," he murmured, his voice shaking. "It's… even worse than the earlier reports."

Beside him, the usually reserved wolf-beastkin Thalen shifted uneasily, his tail flicking. "I knew one of them," he said quietly. "Instructor Halven. He always helped me during drills."

Kael lowered his gaze while Aren stood apart, silent, his eyes fixed on the list. He knew none of the names, yet the weight of it was no less real. It's happening again… and I can't do anything to stop it.

Elira Vaelith stood behind him, arms crossed.

"You can't even control your own power, Novitiate. On the battlefield, you'd only be a burden," she said coolly, her emerald eyes flicking over Aren's face in search of a reaction.

Normally, words like that would have sparked anger—but Aren's expression remained blank.

"The only burden here is you," he said flatly.

Elira stiffened, her composure cracking. "What did you—"

Kael turned, about to intervene, when Serin Elthrae strode into the hall, her steps cutting through the tension.

"Enough," she said sharply, her voice slicing the air like a blade. "The war isn't over, and blame won't make any of you more ready for the next wave."

Later that day, Serin summoned Aren to the Academy's observatory—a glass-walled chamber overlooking the vast expanse of the Middle Trunk. Soft light from Arcana crystals cast long shadows across Serin's stern features and her dark, flowing hair.

"Listen, Aren," she began, standing by the broad window. "I know what you're feeling. I can see the need for vengeance in your eyes every time you look down there. But your power… it's still unstable. You can't yet tell where you end and they begin."

Aren's left hand clenched tight. "I… I can beat them. If I had been there—"

"You would have lost control," Serin cut him off, her tone like steel. "And when that happens, you'll kill more than you save."

The Mark's pulse quickened, answering her words like a drumbeat of defiance. Aren averted his gaze, his jaw tightening. "I can't just stand by while the world burns."

"And you won't," Serin replied, her voice softening, though it held its unyielding edge. "There's a time for everything. Hold on—make sure that when you fight, you won't repeat Lynden's tragedy."

The words struck harder than Aren expected. He wanted to argue but couldn't; some part of him knew she was right.

That night in the Novitiate dormitory, Kael and Thalen were quietly discussing the latest reports. Across the room, Elira pretended to be absorbed in her Arcana modules, though her ears were unmistakably attuned to their conversation.

Kael looked up as Aren entered.

"Hey… you holding up?" he asked carefully.

Aren gave only a short nod. Thalen, his deep voice barely above a rumble, added, "I feel useless too. All we can do is watch."

"Elira's right—we're still just Novitiates," Kael admitted with a bitter edge. "But that doesn't mean we have to stay that way forever. We can get stronger. Together."

Aren didn't respond, but for the first time since Lynden, he didn't feel entirely alone. His eyes drifted from Kael and Thalen to Elira, who quickly averted her gaze, her expression unreadable.

The next morning, the Academy buzzed with news: the Concordium Council had ordered additional deployments to the Middle Trunk. The same rift near Lynden still bled demonic energy, and whispers of a third wave were spreading fast.

In the Academy's main hall, Serin addressed the Novitiates:

"Today we honor those who fell—but we also prepare for what's to come. The next wave will not wait for us to be ready."

The Silent Mark throbbed again—hotter, sharper, almost painful. It was as though the seal itself sensed what was coming sooner than anyone else. Aren tightened his fist, fear and determination entwined.

That night, he stood alone on the dormitory balcony, gazing through the mist toward the Middle Trunk. The Canopy's night breeze carried the faint resin-sweet scent of the World Tree, but all Aren could smell was blood and smoke.

Next time… I won't stand by.

He looked down at the Silent Mark glowing faintly on his left hand, each pulse like a second heartbeat.

I'll be ready when the next wave comes… no matter the cost.