Chapter Fourteen – The Descent of Light
The halo hovered above the Soul Tree, vast and radiant, its hollow center glowing like the eye of a god. The air around it shimmered, bending the white realm into a canvas of light. Everything was still, yet charged with something ancient. Something waiting.
Then the husks began to stir.
Suspended from the tendrils, they twitched—first subtly, then violently. Their mouths opened wide, eyes rolled back, and from every hollow in their bodies poured golden light. Streams surged from their eyes, nostrils, and lips, flooding the Tree in brilliance. The bark absorbed it. The veins of the trunk lit up, glowing like molten rivers carved into wood.
The ground trembled.
The roots of the Tree groaned, pulling free from the pale earth with a sound that echoed like thunder across the void. Slowly, with a weight that defied gravity, the Tree began to rise. Its roots curled upward, lifting the entire mass into the air. The white plain cracked and folded, collapsing into itself like a curtain drawn back.
In its place came the ruined city.
Streets broken and scattered. Homes shattered, their frames twisted. Stone walls scorched and blackened. The air smelled of ash and memory. The city he had once wandered through returned, but it was different—reborn not by time, but by something divine.
Above it all, the halo burned.
Where the moon had once hung, the ring now reigned. Its glow bathed the city in a light that felt sacred. Rays from the suspended husks shot upward, piercing the sky like bolts of judgment. The clouds dissolved, revealing a starless black canvas. No moon. No stars. Just the halo, glowing in the void.
He felt it before he saw it.
The tendrils moved.
They reached for him—long, wooden outgrowths, sharp and deliberate. They pierced his body, one after another. Through his chest. His limbs. His eyes. His thoughts. Yet there was no pain. Only warmth. A strange, overwhelming warmth.
He was lifted into the sky, suspended like the husks. His body hung in the air, pierced and held, and then the flood began.
It came like a storm.
Knowledge. Memories. Voices. Screams.
They poured into him—millions, endless, unstoppable. Lives he had never lived. Thoughts he had never thought. Emotions he had never felt. They rushed through him, drowning his own mind in a sea of others. He felt himself slipping, scattering, breaking.
He screamed.
Not from pain, but from the realization that he was losing himself. His consciousness was being overwritten, replaced, diluted. He saw through other eyes, spoke with other tongues, remembered things he had never known. He was becoming something else.
Then the halo moved.
It descended slowly, orbiting around him, casting its light over his broken self. The warmth intensified. The pressure eased. The flood slowed. He felt his mind begin to stitch itself back together, piece by piece. The foreign thoughts quieted. His own voice returned.
Fear and relief hit him at once.
He was still himself.
Barely.
The halo hovered above him, then without warning, plunged into his chest.
Light exploded.
His body burst into brilliance, a radiant flare that lit the dark sky like a new star. The ruined city below glowed in its wake. The Tree trembled. The husks screamed. The tendrils recoiled.
And then, silence.
A pull tugged at his soul, dragging him back.
He opened his eyes.
He was seated at a long wooden table, dimly lit by flickering candles. The scent of roasted meat filled the air. His mouth was full—soft, seasoned meat melting on his tongue. His hands held a steel fork and spoon. Before him lay a dish of thick gravy, torn bread, and spiced lamb.
He blinked.
Across the table sat the auburn-haired girl, her expression unreadable. Beside her, Old Matt was busy wolfing down his food, chewing with the focus of a man who'd seen too much and said too little.
The room was warm. Medieval. Stone walls, timber beams, a hearth glowing faintly in the corner. A faded tapestry hung behind Matt, depicting a hunt in muted colors. The table was set with pewter plates, wooden cups, and a jug of dark ale.
He stared at the food. At his hands. At the girl.
Panic and confusion swelled in his chest.
How had he gone from the bath to this?
How had his unconscious body moved from the floor to the dining table?
No one spoke.
The only sound was the scrape of cutlery and the quiet crackle of fire.
He swallowed the meat, trying to ground himself. But the question remained, sharp and unanswered.
What had just happened?
And what had he become?