Sign Of The Infernal Root

The Canopy skies roared that night, the normally serene heavens beneath the vast World Tree leaves now churned by warm winds heavy with the scent of resin. Aren sat at the edge of his Novitiate dormitory bed, breath ragged. The Silent Mark on his left hand pulsed violently, as if burning from within.

"Aren!"

Kael burst in, face pale. "You feel it too, don't you? Everyone in the Academy's talking—there's another attack in the Middle Trunk."

The words hit him like a blow. Aren turned to Kael, his pupils trembling.

"Where?"

"Near Lynden," Kael's voice faltered. "Second wave. The same rift… it's growing. Demon forces have broken through the Wardens' defenses."

A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. Aren felt his blood run hot, his chest tighten. Images of burning Lynden, Lyra's scream, Finn and Marin's final moments came flooding back. He clenched his eyes shut, biting his lip until it bled.

"No…" he whispered. "Not again…"

He sprang to his feet, nearly knocking Kael over.

"I have to go."

The dormitory halls were alive with panicked whispers. Students crowded the great windows overlooking the sea of mist below the Middle Trunk. Even from the distant Canopy, faint red glimmers were visible, like the creeping fire of hell climbing upward.

Aren walked swiftly, pale-faced yet steady. Every throb of the Silent Mark was like the tolling of a war bell, calling him downward. Each pulse carried the demons' voices, whispering: Come to me…

At the Academy gates, he found Elira. She stood tall, silver hair tossed by the night wind, her face set and serious.

"Where do you think you're going, Lynden boy?" she asked, her tone laced with disdain but edged with wariness.

"To the Middle Trunk," Aren replied curtly.

Thalen, seeing Aren's frantic stride, quickly followed.

"Aren, don't be stupid," he said, his voice unusually tense. "That's a war zone. Even veteran Wardens are struggling down there."

"Lynden…" Aren's voice broke. "That's… where they all died. I won't let those demons live."

A cold voice cut through the night air.

"You're not going anywhere."

Serin Elthrae stood at the end of the path, her Warden coat rippling, her dark eyes pinning Aren like spears.

"Return to your quarters, Novitiate."

Aren's fists trembled, his whole body quivering.

"You don't understand what's happening down there. That's… my home. I have to—"

"You mean the battlefield," Serin cut in. "You can't even control your own power. If you go there now, you'll die… or worse, lose yourself entirely."

The Silent Mark pulsed harder, as if defying her words. Aren felt the demon power within surge, promising greater strength if he would only give in. He bit his tongue to stifle the roar rising in his throat.

"Let me go," he rasped. "I don't need your permission."

Serin stepped closer, her Arcana-laden presence pressing down on the air.

"One more step, and I'll stop you—by force."

Their eyes locked, tension crackling like static. Aren felt a chill run through him—he knew Serin wasn't bluffing. Every muscle screamed to fight, but another part of him knew: he wouldn't win.

Thalen and Elira stood frozen at a distance, while Kael stepped forward, trying to break the standoff.

"Aren… please. You're not ready. If you go now, you're not just risking your own life. Think about what Sister Elena wanted for you."

The name pierced Aren's heart. Sister Elena… her face, her smile, her lifeless body among Lynden's fallen.

Slowly, the tension in his shoulders collapsed. Aren lowered his head, his frame shaking, his right hand gripping the Silent Mark hard enough to draw blood.

"Why… why can't I stop this…?"

Serin took a slow breath, her voice softening yet firm.

"You want vengeance? Then endure. Master your power. When the time comes, you'll descend to the Middle Trunk… and finish this. But not tonight."

Aren didn't answer. He turned, moving past Elira and Thalen. None of them dared to stop him.

That night, the Canopy did not sleep. Alarms blared across every district, and far below, the Middle Trunk burned with the glow of battle. Aren stood on the dormitory balcony, his small frame bathed in pale moonlight.

Down there, the world that had taken everything from him burned anew. The Silent Mark on his hand glimmered faintly, its pulse echoing the demons' whispers:

Release me… and we'll slaughter them all…

Aren clenched his fist, jaw tight.

"Not yet," he muttered, his eyes lit with a fire rarely seen in a boy of six.

"One day… all of you will be erased."

The night wind stirred, carrying the resin-sweet scent of the World Tree's leaves. In the distance, faint screams seeped through the rift—soft enough for most to forget. But to Aren, they rang clear as a death knell—a call to war he knew he could never ignore forever.