After a deep, much-needed rest in their new sanctuary, Tian and his team were roused by the urgent thumping of a young child at their door. The sound was small but insistent, the kind of knock that carried purpose rather than fear. Blankets rustled, breaths steadied, the last stitches of dream pulled free. Some stirred from visions of the complex and the faces waiting there; others blinked at a ceiling of warm wood and leaf-filtered light, surprised again to find no concrete, no alarms.
They rose not as soldiers but as people—now dressed in ordinary clothes, fabric that breathed and did not seal, colors that did not try to disappear into ruin. Their former protective gear lay set aside with a ritual neatness in this wondrous place, stacked by habit at the foot of beds, visors up like empty eyes given permission to close.
Silently, the child beckoned.
Small fingers made quick, precise motions, a language of welcome and urgency combined. The group fell into step—Tian, Elena, Amara, Kai, and the rest—following through winding walkways that curved like living arteries toward the heart of the colossal tree whose trunk towered over Mosscall. Up they went along a twisting branch that felt more like a crafted road than a limb, its bark grooved with the memory of countless feet. The heights did not threaten; they held.
Amara walked at the center, steadier than the day before, the clean air doing a gentler work in her lungs and blood. The glow behind her eyes lay quiet but awake, as if listening.
They arrived at a massive 30-foot-high doorway, its arch carved with intricate patterns that glowed gently even in daylight—a lace of symbols and leaves and stars, geometry that spoke without words. The threshold faced the trunk's vastness, as if the tree itself paused here to think.
Hisag—ever the scholar in a brilliant blue cloak—greeted them with a wide smile, thanking the child with a precise nod as she darted off like a spark. "I hope you all rested well," he said, ushering them inside with the enthusiasm of a host eager to show a treasure. "We've prepared a meal for you; please eat first, and then we'll go to the Grand Elder."
Inside, a vast hall unfolded—space gathered and softened by craft. Floating crystals bathed the room in gentle magical light, hovering like quiet moons above tables, over doorways, along beams grown rather than built. The tables and chairs, carved from living wood coaxed into shape, resembled royal furniture that had learned to humble its shine. Every curve spoke of artistry; every joint whispered patience. The scent was resin and fruit and steam—warmth made visible.
They sat together. Laughter and conversation, at first tentative, slowly filled the room like warmed honey. Hosts moved between them with a practiced, gracious ease, placing platters piled high with exotic, vibrant fruits—a sphere like an apple but blue within, crisp and sweet as rain; spined ovals that peeled into jeweled segments; soft pearlescent bulbs that burst cool on the tongue. Someone joked about colors being edible again; someone else cried when taste returned meaning to their mouth.
The mood was buoyant. Fear's fist unclenched a little. They ate heartily, happy to be together and free from the constant fear of the wastes above. Elena's hands finally stilled, no longer counting pulses that might vanish; for ten minutes she allowed herself only to chew and notice. Kai took small bites and larger breaths, cataloging nourishment with an accountant's reverence.
About an hour later, Hisag returned, energetic as ever, scattering apologies for interrupting with a grin that made the apology unnecessary. He escorted them deeper into the tree. Immense doors opened with gliding grace; corridors stretched lit by floating candle-like crystals that bobbed at their approach and steadied when they passed. Each hallway balanced fantasy and function—a place meant to awe and to be used. Carvings depicted storms tamed, roots speaking to rivers, humans listening.
At last, they reached a grand entrance.
Eight throne-like seats flanked the chamber in pairs along both sides, each raised on a dais etched with the sigils of its element. One was cold and crystalline as living ice, its arms rimed with hoarfrost that never wet the floor; opposite it a throne formed from burning flame, contained and constant, heat seen but not suffered. Another was green and teeming with life, vines threading its back and blooming without wilting; its counterpart a seat of water, rippling and clear, surface tension bowing softly to the air. Next, a seat formed from blinding light, not harsh but absolute; opposite, one of pure shadow, velvety, full, its edges the only sharp thing about it. Finally, a throne of dense earth, banded with ore and old fossils, opposite a chair crackling with living thunder, arcs stroking its armrests like tamed serpents.
At the far end, in front of the elemental seats, a broad stone platform held a lone figure seated in lotus, deep in trance. The air near him had the hush of a library and the weight of a storm about to choose a direction. With every whisper of his chant, waves of gentle energy rippled through the room, passing over skin like remembered lullabies. Even to those who could not see, comfort and alertness twined in that sound, waking without alarm.
Tian's team entered. Boots softened their steps. The elder's eyes fluttered open—revealing depths like a starry sky, speckled and endless, each gaze a gravity that did not pull, only made you aware of falling if you chose to. Instantly, the orb in Tian's possession responded, pulsing in harmony with the elder's power. It was not a flare but a resonance, a chord found by two instruments tuned long apart.
The old man smiled. "I am Zivan, clan head of Samrak," he intoned, voice resonant and kind, carrying easily without weight. "I humbly ask for your aid. I sense you are the ones who will lead us to the place where the All-Powerful, the Divine Almighty, resides. The long-awaited moment has begun—the journey to salvation is at hand."
The words stunned the room. Hisag's mouth parted, eyes bright and wide; even his studied poise slipped. Legends spoke of a seer destined to guide their clan from exile; that prophecy had lived in lullabies and winter tales, in scholarship and quiet arguments. Now Zivan declared that Tian's group was that prophesied deliverance.
Tian felt the timeline of his life buckle. He gathered himself, spine finding its line. "What do you mean? We're confused… we're not guides; we're survivors. We're lost, unsure—stuck underground, with no knowledge of the world above. Our supplies are gone; we came here hoping for food and water. We're scientists, not heroes, working on secret research projects—after the disaster above, everything changed. We've encountered divine beings, impossible phenomena… the black miasma is like a toxic bio-weapon. It all feels like a weird story, a fantasy come to life. We're grateful to be here, alive, but we're just making it through—we're not saviors."
Elena stepped into the space his words made, her voice worn smooth by triage and tenderness. "Our people back at the complex need help. They have no food or water; we only hope you can aid us."
Kai finished, because math had to speak too. "We need resources, not prophecy. We're lost and desperate, not sure what help we could offer to people like you."
The elder listened, hands resting lightly on his knees, and his smile grew gentle, thoughtful. He did not dismiss need with destiny. "I am not the one who chose," he explained. "I read the stars nightly, and for three centuries they have whispered the same truths." The sentence did not boast. It placed a stone in a stream and watched how water bent. "But last night, everything shifted—an omened change, the first in three hundred years."
He lifted his gaze. It settled on Amara—not as a spotlight, but as dawn, gradual and inarguable—and then on the orb in Tian's hands. The room seemed to tilt toward those two points without moving. His eyes warmed.
In that moment, Tian and his companions felt something that was not an instruction and not a command. It was certainty without pressure, a door opening where they had expected only wall. They were part of something cosmic, an unfolding destiny larger than themselves. The room did not grow brighter. They did.
Amara's fingers twitched, as if a string had found her. She bowed her head, the glow behind her eyes answering to a call that did not sound like any language but felt like home. Elena's heart beat a painful rhythm—faces at the complex, the taste of clean air here, the impossible kindness of a future that could hold both. Kai's mind spun first on resources—trade routes along branches, water management under a world-tree—then steadied on the realization that prophecy, at minimum, was a plan someone had bothered to preserve for centuries.
Hisag put a hand to his chest, relief sparking in the gesture like a match. The eight thrones hummed, a chord almost too low to hear, the elements acknowledging a new arrangement of intentions in the room. The floating crystals dipped subtly, like heads bowing.
Zivan breathed, and the chant at the edges of hearing resumed—not to close them off, but to wrap the moment and keep it from bleeding.
The journey—whether by accident or design—was about to truly begin.