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PROLOGUEThe mukula tree did not scream when they cut it down.Trees never do—not in a way human ears can detect. But deep beneath the red soil of Zambia, something stirred. A tremor of awareness rippled through the underground network where the dying tree''''s roots still clung to life.For decades, the ancient mukula had stood as silent sentinel, its crimson heartwood concealed beneath rough gray bark. It had weathered droughts and fires, sheltered countless generations of creatures, and connected to hundreds of neighboring trees through the invisible threads of mycorrhizal fungi spreading beneath the forest floor.Now, as chainsaw teeth tore through its flesh, the mukula surrendered its final message to the network.They are taking too much. Too fast. We cannot regenerate.The message travelled—not in words, but in chemical pulses, electrical signals, and shifting compounds. It raced through root systems across continents, beneath oceans, translated through a thousand different species of trees, each adding their testimony to the growing chorus.The mangroves of Thailand whispered of coastlines carved away for shrimp farms. The ancient cedars of Lebanon trembled with the memory of mountains stripped bare. The redwoods of California shared visions of hillsides transformed to ash by unnatural fire. The sacred rosewood of Madagascar mourned as its last stands fell to smugglers'''' blades.In sterile laboratory buildings around the world, researchers pursuing science at the edges of understanding had begun detecting anomalies. Electrical resistance in plant tissues fluctuating in impossible patterns. Mycorrhizal networks showing unprecedented activity. Cellular mutations appearing simultaneously in wood samples from disparate species across continents.But the scientists were too slow to recognize what was happening. Too human to comprehend the timescale of the change underway.In the National Museum of Zambia, a collection of makishi masks carved from mukula wood sat in climate-controlled display cases, far from the forests where they had been ceremonially danced. The oldest among them—a fearsome representation of an ancestral spirit—had been carved over a century ago.No human noticed when a droplet of moisture beaded at the corner of its eye, where no moisture should be.No one saw when it slowly rolled down the polished cheek, leaving behind a faint trail that resembled tree sap.No one was watching when security guard James Mwale, making his final rounds of the night, paused before the display, feeling strangely drawn to the weeping mask. He reached out, his fingertips barely brushing its surface.The mask''''s eyes snapped open.By morning, the only trace of James Mwale would be a pool of amber liquid soaking into the museum''''s hardwood floor—and the first message from the awakened Forest Kingdom to humanity.We remember. We reclaim. We return.The forest had decided to speak. And the world was not prepared for what it had to say.SYNOPSISThe Makishi AwakeningDr. Amara Kone, a renowned ethnobotanist specializing in threatened tree species, is called to investigate a disturbing incident at the National Museum of Zambia. A security guard has been found dead among a shattered display of traditional Makishi masks carved from the endangered mukula tree.Through surveillance footage and her expert examination, Amara discovers something impossible—the wooden masks moved on their own and appear to be evolving, their cellular structure reorganizing into something more like living tissue than dead wood.As she begins to unravel the mystery, Amara suspects that the mukula tree''''s endangered status and rampant illegal logging might be triggering an unprecedented response—the awakening of ancient forest consciousness preserved within the wood.