The mist didn't simply roll in—it bloomed like rose, breathing up from the ground, coiling like living smoke.
Ezra staggered backward, but something cold brushed his ankle.
A root. Thin, green, softly glowing from within.
Before he could speak, the root twitched—then split—then multiplied.
Dozens of glowing strands erupted from the wet soil, weaving around his wrists, his legs, his torso. Not violent—worse. Purposeful. Intelligent.
"Hey—HEY! Let me go!" Ezra thrashed, but the roots tightened with gentle firmness, like vines embracing a branch.
Niya watched with wide, delighted eyes. Ziya whispered, "It begins." Eilen simply exhaled, almost reverently.
The roots lifted Ezra off the forest floor, spinning him as they wrapped. Layer after layer, until his body was sealed in a cocoon of shimmering green fiber, glowing faintly like bioluminescent silk.
He could still breathe. Still think. But he couldn't move—couldn't so much as twitch a finger.
The family walked ahead, unconcerned. He was carried behind them, suspended.
The fog parted.
And the Tree revealed itself.
Ancient. Colossal. Its branches didn't sway—they flowed, like strands of hair moving underwater. Colors rippled through the leaves: violent purples, luminous greens, streaks of pitch-black veins pulsing like thought.
At its center, the trunk split open into a vast shape—not exactly a hand, not exactly a throne—but something that understood holding.
The roots placed Ezra into the waiting structure.
He fit perfectly.
The branches curled around the cocoon, gripping it with slow, tender inevitability.
Ezra's breath shuddered.
Behind him, the family kneeled. A dozen other figures—villagers, silhouettes of mist—knelt as well.
All faced the Tree.
And then they began to chant.
Not in madness. Not in frenzy. In devotion.
Their voices rose in perfect, chilling harmony:
"Ө ЯӨӨ⊢ΣÐ ӨͶΣ, ϞᒪΣΣþΣЯ ɃΣͶΣ𐌰⊢ђ ⊢ђΣ ϞӨΪᒪ.ҮӨ∪ ⊢ђΪϞ ⊢Я𐌰ѶΣᒪΣЯ 𐌰ϾϾΣþ⊢.ҮӨ∪ ω𐌰ͶÐΣЯΣЯ þ𐌰⊢ђϞ ӨϜ 𐌰ϾϾΣþ⊢.ҮӨ∪ ђΪӍ ⊢ђЯΣ𐌰ÐϞ ӨϜ ӍΣӍӨЯҮ ΪͶ ɃΪͶÐ.ҮӨ∪ ђΪӍ ҮӨ∪Я ÐЯΣ𐌰ӍΪͶǤ Ƀ𐌰ЯӃ ΪͶ⊢Ө ωΣ𐌰ѶΣ."
(Translation: "O Rooted One, Sleeper Beneath the Soil, Accept this traveler, this wanderer of paths. Bind him in the threads of memory, weave him into your dreaming bark.")
Ezra's pulse hammered.
The Tree's branches glowed brighter, clacking softly in a rhythm like skeletal drums.
The chanting deepened:
"ҮӨ∪ ωђ𐌰⊢ ω𐌰ᒪӃϞ ⊢𐌰ӃΣ. ҮӨ∪ ωђ𐌰⊢ ϞþΣ𐌰ӃϞ ⊢𐌰ӃΣ. ҮӨ∪ ωђ𐌰⊢ ϞΣΣϞ ⊢ђΣ ѶΣΪᒪ ⊢𐌰ӃΣ. 𐌰ͶÐ ÐӨΣϞ ͶӨ⊢ ᒪӨӨӃ 𐌰ω𐌰Ү."
(Translation:"Take what walks. Take what speaks. Take what sees the veil. And does not look away.")
The ground rumbled. A low, resonant hum filled the air — felt through bone, not heard.
The purple in the branches grew violent, the leaves rippling like living waves.
The villagers rose, circling Ezra slowly. Their feet traced patterns in the dirt—spirals, cracks, symbols that pulsed faintly with the Tree's light.
They began to dance.
Not wild. Not joyful. But ritualistic, each step syncing with the tree's pulse:
thrum—stepthrum—step
Ezra tried to scream—but the cocoon muffled everything into silence.
Niya's voice rose louder than the rest:
"Ө ǤЯΣΣͶ ᒪӨЯÐ,Ө ɃЯ𐌰ͶϾђ Σ𐌰⊢ΣЯ ӨϜ ⊢ΪӍΣ.ҮӨ∪ ђΪӍ ⊢𐌰ӃΣ.ҮӨ∪ ђΪӍ ҮӨ∪Я ÐЯΣ𐌰Ӎ ᒪΣ⊢."
(Translation: "O Green Lord, O Branch-Eater of Time, Take him. Let him dream your dream.")
Ezra's vision blurred. The Tree's glow flooded his senses. The cocoon grew warmer—too warm—light seeping beneath his skin like liquid.
The world pulsed, slowing, bending.
The last thing he saw was Niya smiling at him—with eyes far older than a child's should ever be.
And then—
Everything turned green.
The 'Ailoxicon' language featured in this novel is an original constructed language (conlang), that I made specifically for this story.
Note: It utilizes a unique script and unique pronunciation for each alphabet. And bit of comical in pronunciation.
And S-O-V (Subject-Object-Verb) grammatical structure used to create an immersive, distinct linguistic experience.
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