God's Tree-Chapter 172: The Bloom That Marked Him

Malakar arrived seconds later, the light from the bloom likely having woken him. He stopped beside Argolaith, silent for a long moment as he studied it.

"This is not of the forest," he said.

Argolaith nodded. "It wasn't ever meant to be."

Kaelred arrived moments later, shirt half-buttoned and hair sticking in every direction. "What in the hells is that thing?"

Argolaith didn't answer. He stepped forward, slowly, drawn by the rune.

Then the light pulsed.

Once.

And the rune shifted—elongating, curving, snapping into a new shape. Before he could react, a tendril of pure white light shot from the flower's center and struck his outstretched hand.

"Argolaith!" Kaelred shouted, lunging forward.

But it was already done.

Argolaith staggered back, blinking, hand clutched to his chest.

And on his forearm, just below the elbow, the rune had etched itself into his skin—dark gold, faintly glowing, warm to the touch.

Malakar stepped forward quickly. "Let me see it."

Argolaith held out his arm. The rune pulsed once beneath his skin.

"I don't recognize the structure," Malakar muttered. "It's… fragmented. But ancient. Not Elven. Not divine. Not demonic."

Kaelred looked between them. "Okay. So it's something completely unknown that just branded Argolaith like a sacrificial lamb. That's not terrifying at all."

They returned to the library by midday.

Athos waited for them, standing outside beneath the old stone archway like he'd known they were coming.

The moment his eyes fell on Argolaith's forearm, they widened—only slightly—but enough.

"You've been marked," he said.

"You recognize it?" Argolaith asked.

Athos nodded slowly. "Only from one place."

He led them inside, past scroll racks and shelves heavy with ancient knowledge, to a small alcove at the back—one Argolaith had never been allowed to enter as a child.

There, on the wall, carved into stone older than the library itself, was a fractured slab containing the same rune, cracked and faded—but unmistakable.

Kaelred whistled low. "What is it?"

Athos ran his hand across the carving. "A remnant of a forgotten race. One that lived before the gods learned their names."

Malakar's eyes burned brighter. "The Forerunners."

Athos nodded grimly. "Exactly. And if this rune has appeared now…"

He turned to Argolaith.

"…then it means they've noticed you."

It was just past midnight when Argolaith felt the pull for the first time.

He had been sitting near the cabin window, the forest bathed in starlight, the silver-petaled bloom still faintly glowing outside. The mark on his arm, the rune etched into his flesh by the strange plant, had remained warm ever since it branded him—but now, the warmth deepened.

Shifted.

He looked down.

The lines of the rune were glowing again—this time brighter, humming low in his skin. Not painful… not yet. But insistent.

And then he felt it.

A presence inside his storage ring.

His heart slowed.

His thoughts narrowed.

The lifeblood.

All three vials, tucked safely in a sealed compartment of the ring's vast voidspace, had begun to stir.

Argolaith pulled the ring from his finger and focused. In his mind's eye, the infinite space within unfolded before him—rows of neatly stored items, weapons, food, supplies, ancient texts, and near the very center…

Three vials. Each etched with a unique rune. Each containing a drop of lifeblood from one of the Five Trees.

He reached for them mentally.

The moment his awareness touched them, the rune on his arm flared.

It wasn't a reaction. It was a connection.

The vials vibrated faintly in the ring's interior, swirling as though stirred by invisible currents.

Argolaith could feel something forming between them and the mark on his body—a resonance.

He placed the ring back on his finger.

The connection didn't fade.

"Malakar," he called out, his voice low but clear.

Within moments, the lich stepped silently through the door, violet eyes glowing softly in the dark. "You felt it, didn't you?"

Argolaith nodded. "The lifeblood. It's responding to the rune."

Malakar moved closer, examining the markings on Argolaith's arm. "Not responding. Aligning."

Kaelred, now awake and leaning against the doorframe with bed-tossed hair, raised an eyebrow. "Care to explain that without sounding like an ominous preacher?"

Malakar spoke carefully. "The rune is old. Older than divine magic. Older than mortal thought. But it doesn't generate power—it amplifies it. Refines it. When branded onto a vessel of compatible lineage…"

He gestured toward Argolaith.

Follow current novels on ƒreewebηoveℓ.com.

"…it begins to draw the elements of that vessel's destiny together."

Kaelred blinked. "You mean it's turning him into a magical magnet?"

"In a sense," Malakar said.

Argolaith looked down at his arm. "But it's not pulling toward the tree."

Malakar tilted his head. "Not yet. It's still calibrating to your lifeblood."

Before dawn, Argolaith stepped outside again.

The bloom had changed.

It no longer swayed gently with the wind.

Now, its petals stood still—facing him. As if watching.

When he stepped closer, the rune on his arm flared again, matching the glow at the center of the flower. The earth around the plant shimmered faintly, the grass thicker, more vibrant.

Kaelred stood at the cabin's door. "I'm not saying your plant is alive—but it definitely has a crush on you."

Argolaith didn't respond.

He knelt, placing his hand gently on the soil beside it.

And again—

The pull.

But not toward the plant.

Toward the southwest.

A single, sharp direction.

A calling.

Argolaith stood. "It's pointing now."

Malakar stepped beside him. "The fourth tree?"

Argolaith nodded.

"Yes. I can feel it."

The decision was made by sunrise.

Argolaith stood beneath the still-blooming flower outside his cabin, the rune on his arm faintly glowing. The pull toward the fourth tree had settled into a steady pressure, guiding him southward—no longer a whisper, but a direction.

He didn't need to meditate. He didn't need to question it.

The rune had chosen.

And so had he.

It was time to move again.

But not without one last day in Seminah.

The morning was spent in gentle motion.

Malakar sealed scrolls and wrapped satchels of reagents, his skeletal fingers moving with quiet efficiency as he stored them into Argolaith's storage ring.

Thae'Zirak circled overhead in his small form, occasionally landing on the porch and asking if they had "packed enough food for a dragon who prefers roasted war beast flank with ghost pepper glaze."

Kaelred wandered back from town with a small bag of smoked meats and dried fruit, waving at a pair of wide-eyed children who clearly couldn't decide if he was a hero or a villain.

Argolaith, meanwhile, visited the small market square.

He bought nothing.

He simply walked the paths he once knew—past the cobbler's home, past the hollow cedar tree he used to climb as a boy. The wind stirred softly, rustling leaves above the well in the center of the square. A few villagers nodded to him. Most simply watched.

He was not one of them anymore.

But they understood.

Near midday, Argolaith returned to the library.

Athos was waiting, as though he hadn't moved in hours, seated beside the arched window with a book closed across his lap.

"So," the old man said, "you're going."

Argolaith nodded. "The rune's showing me the way. The fourth tree is calling."

Athos rose slowly and walked to one of the side shelves. He reached between two thick tomes and withdrew a scroll wrapped in deep violet cloth. He handed it to Argolaith without ceremony.

"It's not a map," he said. "But it's a list of names. Places. Words I encountered long ago while studying the Forerunners. You'll understand some of them later."

Argolaith bowed his head. "Thank you."

Athos placed a hand on his shoulder. "When you find your final tree… come back. Not because you must. But because this will always be your home."

Argolaith didn't promise.

He didn't need to.

That night, as the last of their preparations were packed and the cabin was made ready to sleep in silence once more, Argolaith and Kaelred sat outside beneath the stars.

Neither spoke for a long time.

Then Kaelred broke the stillness.

"You think the fourth tree is going to test you with another death match or drag you through some nightmare memory?"

Argolaith exhaled through his nose. "Probably."

"Lovely," Kaelred said, leaning back. "And I'm guessing I'll be stuck dodging exploding plants and shade-beasts while you're off fighting yourself."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

Kaelred glanced sideways. "You've changed."

"So have you."

"I mean it," Kaelred said more seriously. "You're not chasing power anymore. Not blindly. You're becoming… something else."

Argolaith looked toward the south, the rune on his arm faintly pulsing.

"I don't think I was ever meant to stay in one place."

Kaelred gave a half-grin. "Good. Because I'm not letting you die until I get a proper meal cooked by a tree spirit."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Before sleep took them, Argolaith returned one last time to the sprout outside the cabin.

It had not grown taller. But it now bore a second bloom—smaller, quieter, with no rune. Just light.

The ground beneath it felt warm.

Alive.

He touched the base of the stalk gently.

And this time, there was no whisper.

Only stillness.

Like it was waiting for him to return.