Val descended the spiraling staircase of the Life Tower, his footsteps echoing against ancient stone as his mind reeled from the implications of Linden's words. The conversation with the Grandmaster played over and over in his thoughts, fragments of revelation colliding with questions he hadn't thought to ask.

  Behind him, Alea chatted animatedly, her enthusiasm for the theoretical aspects of his condition a stark contrast to the weight settling across his shoulders. Her voice faded to background noise as Val's attention drifted to a cluster of saplings planted in perfect concentric circles around the tower's base. As he passed, their leaves trembled and turned toward him like sunflowers tracking light.

  "Did you see that?" he interrupted, stopping abruptly.

  Alea glanced at the plants, then back at him. "See what?"

  Val pointed but the saplings now stood motionless in the afternoon breeze. "Nothing," he said after a moment. "I thought..." He shook his head. "Never mind."

  They continued through the academy grounds in silence, Val nodding mechanically to Alea's occasional comments about research potential and historical precedents. The leather-bound manual Linden had given him felt heavier than its physical weight warranted, as if the knowledge within had mass beyond paper and ink.

  At the academy gates, Alea touched his arm. "Are you sure you're alright? You seem distant."

  "I just need time to process all this," Val admitted. "I think I'll walk for a while."

  Concern flashed across Alea's face. "Want company?"

  He shook his head. "Not right now. I need to..." He gestured vaguely, unable to articulate exactly what he needed.

  "Think," she finished for him with a knowing smile. "I understand. Just don't disappear on me, alright? This is too fascinating, I mean, too important, to face alone."

  The slip made him smile despite himself. "I promise not to deny you your research opportunity."

  "Good." She punched his shoulder lightly. "Come by the tavern later if you change your mind about company."

  Val nodded, already drifting away, drawn toward the city's lower districts. Alea's voice followed him briefly, something about meeting tomorrow with Linden's student, but he raised a hand in acknowledgment without turning back.

  The transition from upper to lower city was stark, both in architecture and atmosphere. The orderly streets and spacious courtyards gave way to narrower passages and buildings pressed shoulder to shoulder like spectators at a public execution. Yet where the upper city felt sterile in its perfection, the lower districts pulsed with life; chaotic, messy, and vital.

  Val moved through the streets without conscious direction, letting instinct guide him while his mind churned. Mother Arden. The First Seeds. It seemed impossible that any of it could relate to him, a ranger of modest abilities and unremarkable background. Yet the evidence of his changing nature was undeniable.

  A street vendor's call brought him back to his surroundings. The woman, weathered by sun and years, offered roasted chestnuts from a small cart. The scent triggered a cascade of memories, festival nights as a child, his father's hand warm around his own, his mother laughing at something his brother said. Val purchased a small packet, continuing his aimless wandering as he ate.

  He passed a small courtyard where children played at being soldiers and undead, wielding sticks as swords and moaning dramatically when "killed." Their laughter jarred against his recent memories of Willow Creek, of real blood and final breaths. He moved on quickly.

  As afternoon slid toward evening, the city's lamps were lit one by one, pools of warm light pushing back against encroaching shadows. Val found himself in a quieter district, residential rather than commercial, houses modest but well-maintained. His feet had carried him home without conscious intent.

  The house stood much as he'd left it, a two-story structure of stone and timber, narrow but deep, wedged between similar dwellings on a relatively quiet street. It had been his parents' home, then his alone after their deaths, a space too large for a single occupant but filled with memories he couldn't bring himself to abandon.

  A barrel sat beside his door, incongruously new against the weathered wood. A folded paper had been tucked beneath the twine securing the lid. Val recognized the barrel mark instantly, the stylized flame that Baret stamped on all his premium reserves.

  Unlocking his door, Val rolled the barrel inside before unfolding the note.

  Alea said you might need this. It's your favorite and just came into season. The first batch is always the best. The message was unsigned, but Baret's handwriting was unmistakable.

  Val smiled, the first genuine expression to cross his face since leaving Linden's office. Trust Baret to know exactly what comfort to offer, even without understanding why it was needed. The man had an innate sense for such things, a talent that made him as good a counselor as he was a tavern keeper.

  The main floor consisted of a modest sitting room that opened into a kitchen and dining area. Upstairs, two bedrooms and a small study completed the space. It wasn't grand by upper city standards, but it represented security that few in the lower city could claim. A home fully owned, not rented or mortgaged, passed down through generations.

  Val stoked the hearth in the sitting room, building a fire more for comfort than necessity in the mild evening. From a cabinet, he retrieved a clay cup, its glaze cracked with age but still serviceable. The barrel's tap was easily fitted, and soon dark liquid flowed into the waiting vessel, its aroma rich with summer berries and subtle spices.

  He sank into the worn armchair positioned near the hearth, stretching his legs toward the growing flames. The first sip of wine bloomed across his tongue, sweet initially, then darkening to a complex tartness that lingered pleasantly. Baret's skill was evident in the balance, neither too sweet nor too dry, the fruit prominent but not overpowering.

  With his free hand, Val opened Linden's manual, determined to at least attempt to understand the knowledge the Grandmaster had entrusted to him. The tome fell open naturally to well-worn pages, suggesting frequent consultation by its owner. Diagrams of plant anatomy filled the margins, annotated in a precise hand that matched the main text.

  "The fundamental principle of growth aether manipulation lies not in forcing development but in removing impediments to natural progression," the opening paragraph stated. "All living organisms possess inherent patterns of maturation encoded within their essential nature. The skilled practitioner does not impose foreign patterns but rather aligns with and enhances existing ones."

  Val took another drink, larger this time, as he tried to focus on the dense text. The language was technical without being impenetrable, but his mind kept slipping away from the words, drawn back to questions Linden's revelations had raised.

  If his core was changing, becoming more like those described in ancient texts, what did that mean for his future?

  He turned another page, forcing his attention back to the manual. This section detailed techniques for accelerating plant growth, complete with diagrams showing the proper circulation of aether through root systems and cellular structures. Val tried to imagine himself implementing these methods, channeling life energy with the precision Linden described, but the concepts remained frustratingly abstract.

  After several pages of increasingly technical descriptions, Val closed the book with a sigh. While not unintelligent, he had never been particularly academic. His strengths lay in practical skills and not theoretical understanding. His cup was empty. Val refilled it, noting with distant surprise that the level in the barrel had already dropped noticeably. The wine was going down easily, too easily perhaps, but he welcomed the haze it brought his mind.

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  As the second cup disappeared and a third replaced it, Val's gaze drifted to the far corner of the room, where a small shelf held the few personal items he valued. Among them stood a simple wooden frame containing a portrait, his family, captured by a traveling artist during happier times. His father's confident stance, his mother's gentle smile, his brother's gangly teenage form, and himself, barely into adolescence, serious-eyed even then.

  The memory rose unbidden, the day the alderman had come to deliver the news. He'd been fifteen, staying with Baret and his wife, while his mother and father traveled with a trading caravan. The knock had been firm, authoritative. One preacher, the alderman and a representative of the merchant guild.

  "Valtha Hearne?" the preacher had asked, and something in her tone had told him everything before she spoke another word.

  They'd been caught in an attack while returning from a trading expedition to the southern valley. A band of gnolls, driven from their territory by a moutnain troll, had turned to raiding out of desperation. The entire caravan had been killed defending their wagon. By the time a ranger patrol responded to smoke signals from a nearby settlement, it was too late.

  Due to proximity to the Deadlands, they'd burned the bodies where they fell, as tradition demanded. The rangers brought what personal effects they could salvage; his father's signet ring, his brother's belt knife, a locket containing a curl of his mother's hair that his father had always carried.

  At fifteen, Val had found himself alone in the house that had once held a family. Rather than sell it, as neighbors advised, he'd kept it, though he spent most of his time at the Faets meant he was rarely there. It remained a kind of anchor, a fixed point in a life increasingly defined by movement and combat.

  The fourth cup of wine brought a pleasant numbness, thoughts flowing more freely even as they grew less coherent. Val rose unsteadily, moving to the shelf to retrieve the framed portrait. The artist had captured his mother's essence well, the kindness in her eyes, the slight tilt of her head that suggested attentive listening. His father appeared as he remembered him, confident to the point of arrogance, but with an underlying warmth that balanced his more domineering traits.

  His brother, Thom, stood awkwardly between childhood and adulthood, pride in his new position as a merchant guard visible in his posture. Despite the four-year age gap between them, Thom had never treated Val as a burden, including him in adventures when possible and defending him fiercely when necessary.

  Would they recognize him now, the boy they'd left behind? Would they approve of the man he'd become, the choices he'd made? The ranger path hadn't been what his father envisioned for him, he'd hoped Val would follow him into trade like his brother.

  And Thom... Thom would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. His practical older brother, caught up in ancient magic and legendary figures. He'd have teased Val mercilessly.

  Val returned the portrait to its place, his movements careful despite the wine's influence. On his way back to the chair, he paused by the staircase, eyes drawn to something hanging from the newel post, his mother's necklace, a simple silver chain supporting a pendant of polished river stone.

  He lifted it gently, the metal cool against his palm. His mother had rarely removed it, claiming the stone had been blessed by a life mage to ward against illness. Whether true or merely comforting superstition, it had been precious to her, a gift from his father in their courting days.

  Val carried it with him to the armchair, settling back with the necklace draped across his fingers. The stone caught the firelight, revealing subtle variations in color, predominantly green with threads of blue running through it like waterways on a map.

  Val reached for his cup with an unsteady hand, draining it in a single swallow. The wine no longer tasted of berries and spice but of ash and regret. Still, he poured another, seeking the oblivion it promised.

  The vision comes to Val without warning, one moment he's asleep in his small house, the next he's standing on a hillside overlooking a vast plain. The disorientation is brief; somehow, he knows this isn't just a dream.

  Below him stretches a battlefield unlike any he's ever seen. Thousands of soldiers in gleaming armor march in perfect formation, their helmets catching the morning sun like a sea of metal. Banners bearing the twin eagles of the Atilean Empire snap in the wind above their ranks. War machines, massive siege engines and strange contraptions Val doesn't recognize, lumber behind the front lines.

  Across the plain stands a much smaller force. Perhaps a thousand men and women in simple leather armor, arranged in loose clusters rather than rigid formations. At their center stands a tall oak staff planted in the ground, from which flies a green banner with a golden tree embroidered at its center.

  "Watch."

  Val finds himself moving closer, drawn by an unseen force until he stands among the defenders. Though he passes through them like a ghost, he can see their faces clearly, determined, afraid, but resolute. They grip spears and bows with white-knuckled hands, many murmuring prayers to themselves.

  A figure steps forward from the defenders' ranks, a broad-shouldered man with a full beard streaked with gray. His presence commands instant attention, though he wears no insignia of rank, just simple leather armor like the others. What sets him apart is the staff he carries, a living branch that still bears green leaves despite being cut from its tree.

  "They outnumber us more than five to one," says a young woman beside him, her face pale but determined.

  The bearded man nods, his expression calm. "Numbers have never been our advantage, Thera." He turns to face the gathered defenders. "Children of the Oakspire! The empire comes to take what isn't theirs, our homes, our freedom, our very connection to the land. They believe their steel and numbers make them invincible."

  He raises the living staff, and Val feels a surge of power emanate from the man, pure life aether, but channeled with a precision and purpose he's never witnessed before.

  "Mother Arden taught us that true strength comes not from conquest, but from connection. We are not alone on this field today!"

  The bearded man, one of the First Seeds, Val somehow knows, drives his staff into the earth. A ripple of green energy pulses outward in concentric circles, washing over the defenders. As it passes each person, something extraordinary happens.

  The very earth beneath their feet responds. Wooden armor begins to grow around each defender, sprouting from the ground itself and climbing up their bodies. Not crude plates or shields, but intricately patterned protection that follows the contours of their forms perfectly. The wood is living, flexible at the joints but hardening to an impossible density over vital areas.

  Val watches in amazement as hundreds of soldiers are simultaneously armored in seconds. The wooden protection doesn't just cover them, it enhances them, sprouting thorns from shoulders and elbows, creating helmets shaped like fearsome beasts.

  The First Seed raises his staff again. "Remember what Mother Arden taught us, we are the caretakers of this valley, and it responds to our need. Feel the life around you, channel it through your will, and become one with its purpose!"

  The Atilean horns sound, and their front line charges forward with a thunderous roar. Arrows rain down upon the defenders, but where they strike the wooden armor, they either deflect harmlessly or embed without penetrating to the flesh beneath. The wood adapts in real-time, thickening where needed, reinforcing vulnerable areas.

  As the empire's front line crashes against the defenders, their swords and spears glance off the wooden armor or become embedded in it. Some defenders fall under the sheer momentum of the charge, but far fewer than should be possible against such odds.

  The First Seed is everywhere at once, it seems to Val. He moves through the ranks, touching his staff to the ground to renew the wooden armor where it's damaged, calling instructions and encouragement. Where he passes, plants spring up from trampled earth, entangling the feet of imperial soldiers or growing with unnatural speed to provide cover.

  What begins as a desperate defense transforms into something more. The defenders press forward, their wooden armor sprouting and adapting as they move. Vines extend from their hands to entangle enemies, wooden blades sharpen to cut through metal armor, shields grow to protect not just individuals but entire units moving in coordination.

  The discipline of the imperial forces breaks under this uncanny assault. What their commanders expected to be a swift victory against inferior numbers becomes a disorienting nightmare as the very land seems to turn against them. War machines sink into suddenly soft earth, their wheels entangled by rapidly growing roots. Archers find their bowstrings mysteriously dampened by sudden humidity that appears from nowhere.

  Val sees the First Seed standing at the center of the battlefield, his staff raised high, a corona of green energy surrounding him as he directs this symphony of life aether. Imperial soldiers who approach him find themselves unable to strike, not through any physical barrier, but because vines and roots erupt from the ground to restrain them, or because their weapons transform into flowering branches in their hands.

  The battle reaches its crescendo when the imperial general, resplendent in gold-trimmed armor, drives forward with his elite guard to confront the First Seed directly. When the general reaches the center of their formation, the First Seed slams his staff into the ground with both hands. An explosion of green light erupts, temporarily blinding Val. When his vision clears, he sees that the ground around the imperial forces has transformed. It is no longer dirt and grass but a living entity that engulfs them to their knees, rendering them immobile.

  The First Seed approaches the trapped general, his wooden armor flowing around him like a second skin. "The empire believes it can take whatever it desires," he says, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet battlefield. "But Yelden Valley is not yours to take. It is alive, aware, and it has chosen its defenders."

  The imperial soldiers lay down their weapons, surrender evident in their postures. The defenders raise a cheer that echoes across the plain, their wooden armor flowering in brilliant colors as their triumph manifests physically through the life aether still flowing through them.

  As the vision dissolves completely, Val hears words that seem to come from everywhere and nowhere.

  "Remember."