Chương 88: Epilogue - Part III

Morning always reaches the Circle long before it reaches me. The younger druids insist it is because I sleep too deeply in my old age. I have never bothered correcting them. The truth is considerably simpler. They rise when the sun greets the forest. I rise when the Heartwood does. For longer than most kingdoms have existed, that rhythm has never changed. I step from my cottage just as the first rays of dawn break through the eastern canopy, painting the ancient valley in shades of gold and green.

Around me, the Circle is already beginning to stir. A pair of apprentices carry woven baskets toward the herb terraces while another group kneels beside the lower gardens, quietly debating whether yesterday's rain had been enough for the young moonvine. Their conversation stops as I pass.

"Good morning, Archdruid." I incline my head.

"Master." One of the younger druids' hurries after me, parchment tucked awkwardly beneath one arm.

"We finished cataloguing the western grove yesterday. The saplings are taking root faster than expected."

"Good."

"We thought perhaps the soil had changed."

"It has." The young man blinks.

"It has?"

"Every forest changes. Your task is noticing how." I continue walking before he can ask another question. Behind me, I hear the others laughing quietly as he struggles to decide whether I had answered his question or avoided it entirely. Youth has always mistaken simple truths for riddles. The path curves gently uphill before opening into the oldest part of the Circle. The forest changes here. The trees here grow older.

The air itself carries a different weight beneath their branches, rich with the quiet certainty of things that have endured for centuries. Moss blankets roots, wider than cottages while shafts of sunlight filter through leaves so high above the forest floor they almost disappear into the morning mist. At the center of it all stands the Heartwood. Even after all these years, I still find myself pausing whenever it comes into view.

Its trunk is broader than any hall ever built by mortal hands, its bark silver-grey with age while branches disappear into the heavens beneath a canopy large enough to shelter an entire city. Thousands upon thousands of seasons have passed beneath those leaves. Empires have risen beyond this valley only to vanish again while the old tree remained exactly where it has always been. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Patient, watching, remembering.

I rest my palm against the bark. The familiar pulse greets me immediately. Slow, steady and comforting. The Heartwood has always spoken this way, trough life itself. Each morning, I spend a few quiet moments listening, allowing its roots to carry whispers of the forest through the mana flowing beneath the valley. Sick trees, hungry predators. Streams changing course after heavy rain. Tiny changes unnoticed by everyone else. It is a ritual older than memory. Today, something interrupts it. I frown.

The pulse beneath my hand hesitates so briefly that I almost convince myself I imagined it. I close my eyes and listen again. There, the faint pulse of recognition. The sensation is so unfamiliar that I remove my hand entirely before placing it against the bark once more. The Heartwood has never reacted this way. A cool breeze stirs the upper canopy, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth through the valley, yet my attention remains fixed entirely upon the ancient tree before me.

"What have you found?" The question escapes before I realize I have spoken aloud. The answer arrives as an echo. Faint and almost impossibly distant. It reaches me through the same living current connecting every ancient grove across the world, little more than the gentlest ripple passing beneath the surface of a vast and timeless river. I follow it carefully, west... no, farther South. The feeling strengthens for only a heartbeat before fading once more, but it is enough.

Enough to leave me standing perfectly still beneath the Heartwood's branches.

"No..." I whisper.

"That cannot be." Heartwoods do not answer one another anymore. They have not done so for centuries. One by one they vanished from the world until only the oldest Circles remained to preserve those that survived. Every druid living today accepts that truth as readily as they accept the turning of the seasons. I accepted it myself. Until now. Once again, I reach through the ancient current flowing beneath the world. The answer returns. Weak, distant and undeniably real.

Silverwoods carry a brighter, younger rhythm, eager and vibrant like spring after a long winter. This pulse is deeper and older. The unmistakable heartbeat of another Heartwood. Somewhere beyond the mountains, beyond kingdoms I have never walked, beyond forests whose names have been forgotten. Another of the First Trees has taken root. I cannot remember the last time the world genuinely surprised me. Perhaps, it never has. A quiet laugh escapes before I can stop it.

Several apprentices glance toward me in obvious confusion. I doubt any of them have ever heard me laugh before. One finally gathers enough courage to approach.

"Master?" I turn toward him, unable to keep the smile from my face.

"Tell the Circle that today's lessons are postponed." His eyebrows rise.

"We're leaving?"

"No." I look once more toward the eastern horizon, where the first light of dawn now stretches beyond the endless sea of trees.

"Not yet." The old Heartwood hums softly beneath my hand, as though quietly confirming what both of us already know. At long last, we are no longer alone.