From the outside, the tunnel looked like nothing more than a gap between ancient roots. No light. No sound. No signs of life. Just a narrow crevice hidden behind vines and shadow. Had it not been for Nivelle’s eager insistence, Elara might never have guessed that behind that silent crack… lay another world.
Lioren stood before the opening, arms crossed, wings flickering faintly.
“If you stay this big, stepping inside will ruin everything,” he said coolly. “We don’t have much space left. One broken root… could collapse a home.”
Without waiting for a reply, he pulled two small objects from the pouch at his waist—each one shaped like a leaf pendant, pulsing with soft, crystal-lined veins. The light within them shifted with an unpredictable rhythm, as if the objects themselves were alive.
“This is called Lunethera,” Nivelle explained, her voice gentler. “Adjustment pendants. They synchronize your bodies with the rhythm of the roots—make you... compatible. Size, pressure, vis trace—they’ll all be aligned.”
Elara took one. The moment her skin touched the leaf-shaped crystal, a cold sharpness pricked her finger, followed by a slow warmth spreading through her veins, like water flowing along the lines of her pulse.
“Is this… magic?” she asked softly.
“More than that,” Lioren replied flatly. “This is legacy. Woven from first-generation threads of light. It cannot be replicated.”
Louis accepted his without a word. He studied it briefly, then looped it around his neck with a shrug.
“All right,” he muttered. “If my body explodes, I’ll thank you in advance.”
The instant the Lunethera touched Elara’s skin, the world shifted.
She didn’t feel herself shrink. There was no sensation of compression or pulling. But in the blink of an eye, the surrounding roots grew colossal, the grass rose to her waist, and dew droplets at the tips of leaves now glimmered like crystal spheres. Louis beside her… had changed too. Their bodies were now no taller than Nivelle and Lioren’s. Everything felt familiar—but alien.
“Welcome,” Nivelle said with a smile. “Now you won’t destroy anything just by walking.”
As they stepped through the crevice, the tunnel ahead began to glow. Soft bioluminescence seeped from the walls, fungi forming patterns like stars and twisting roots. The sound of trickling water echoed from deeper within, layered with the whisper of roots that felt… more than natural. Like distant sighs, or the lullaby of something ancient long asleep.
Further in, the tunnel ceiling curved open. The foliage above parted, revealing a vast space—a village. But not a village made by human hands. This was a living ecosystem, perfectly merged with the walls of the hill.
Tiny homes hung from thick root-branches. Some were tiered like glowing bird nests. Bridges made of thread connected one root to another. And at the center stood a massive tree, its core gleaming with a pale violet crystal. Roots extended from it in every direction, anchoring the entire place.
Elara stood still, her gaze sweeping across every detail.
“The world above… knows nothing of this.”
Louis nodded. “And maybe it’s better that way.”
But in Elara’s mind, something heavier stirred—something beyond the wonder of this place. She knew: the deeper one ventured into Nhal Vireth, the more likely they were to encounter others. And not all who descended were seekers of knowledge. Many came chasing ambition. Power. The unclaimed and the undocumented.
If she and Louis stayed above ground… it was only a matter of time before they ran into someone like that.
And among all the unknown creatures and untrodden lands, it was still humans who posed the greatest danger.
“Lioren, Nivelle,” Elara said quietly. “May we stay here… for a while?”
Their steps were still unsteady as they crossed the suspended root-bridge, flanked by glowing tendrils that hung like vines from the ceiling. Beneath them, the Elarin village spread in a circular formation—like a natural hive shaped by light and forest. Softly glowing homes clung to thick plant trunks, while faint murmurs drifted up from twisting root tunnels below.
“Why is everyone… looking down when they see us?” Louis asked in a low voice—half curious, half suspicious. He watched the small Elarin scurry aside or avert their eyes as they passed.
Nivelle turned with a wide grin, as if remembering something she should’ve mentioned.
“Oh, right. We didn’t tell you, did we?” she said cheerfully. “Our father is the Rootkeeper. Sort of like the village elder. But people here prefer to call him… the Fourth Rootkeeper.”
Elara paused mid-step, eyes narrowing. “And you two… are the elder’s children?”
Lioren merely scoffed, staring ahead.
“Don’t get too comfortable just because we speak politely, human. We’re not your tour guides.”
As they continued walking, soft chimes began to ring from the village’s heart. A root tunnel opened ahead of them, revealing a garden glowing in hues of blue and violet. Inside, Elara saw a small tree whose leaves shifted color whenever touched—like it was recording memories unseen.
A few steps later, she noticed something else—the sound around them was changing. No longer just the rustle of root-vines or water trickling, but whispers—fast and hushed, bouncing off the living walls of the village.
“...humans?”
“Why are there two of them here?”
“How many centuries has it been?”
“Wasn’t the gate sealed long ago?”
Small Elarin peeked out from gaps in the roots, some half-hidden while clutching threads like puppet strings. The older ones merely watched in silence—some blinking slowly, others placing a hand to their chest as if calming a restless heart.
Louis glanced left and right, then let out a slow sigh.
“This feels like… wandering into a remote village and instantly becoming local folklore.”
Elara held back a smile, but her eyes stayed sharp, scanning the small faces surrounding them. Some looked afraid. Others merely curious. Yet none dared approach.
“Don’t worry, Elara,” Nivelle said, her voice now quieter, more measured, as if sensing the shift in atmosphere. “You’re not the first humans to enter this place.”
That made Elara turn sharply. “Not the first?”
Nivelle nodded. “There were others. Long ago.” She glanced briefly at Lioren, who simply huffed and kept walking. “But not all of them came with good intentions. That’s why the path was sealed. Those who came afterward… never made it this far.”
Louis raised an eyebrow. “So we’re… exceptions?”
“You could say that.” Nivelle smiled again, though more softly this time. “Because you came bearing Lunethera. And because the roots didn’t reject you.”
“I see,” Louis replied.
At last, they reached the end of the suspended bridge. Before them stretched a descending path that led toward the village’s heart. It wasn’t just soil—it was a natural spiral staircase of living roots, twisting and curving with graceful patterns, adorned with glowing flowers and pale violet crystal fungi. The central tree’s light spilled down gently onto the path, making the entire trail pulse like the slow heartbeat of a giant.
Nivelle and Lioren hopped lightly onto the first step and turned back to signal Elara and Louis to follow.
“Don’t worry—it’s not slippery,” Nivelle said. “This is the main path to the heart of Nyelva—where the light-tree grows.”
As they descended together, Elara caught a faint scent of fresh leaves mingled with something warm and sweet—like heated honey. On their right stood a low building made of woven tendrils and semi-transparent walls. Louis tilted his head slightly, analyzing its design.
“That’s the communal kitchen,” Nivelle explained, without waiting for the question. “We don’t cook much like humans do… but we preserve flavors—quite literally.”
Lioren let out a grunt, still frowning. A young Elarin sitting by the kitchen entrance glanced at them, then whispered with a laugh,
“Lioren still hates kitchen duty, huh?”
“I heard that,” Lioren replied flatly, without looking back.
Elara stifled another smile and asked, “Is life always like this here? Peaceful… orderly… and full of harmony?”
Nivelle turned her head for a moment as she walked backward. She smiled.
“Welcome to Nyelva, the home of the Elarin. This isn’t just a village… it’s the root of many things your kind has long forgotten.”
Louis studied everything around him—the rhythm of the villagers’ movements, the way the mushrooms lit up with each step, even the soft hum of the roots that echoed like whispers.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
I see, he thought. This ecosystem isn’t just stable—it’s intelligent. A living social system. I want to know more.
But it was the hanging lights that truly caught his attention. Small crystals glowed gently between the roots, casting a steady but soft illumination. Lumium, he recognized. The same material humans used.
“Where are we going?” Elara asked after a few more steps, her eyes still sweeping over the lattice of interwoven roots ahead. In the distance, the central crystal tree looked even larger than she’d expected—its trunk glowed softly, and its thick roots seemed to hold memories.
“We’re going to meet Paningal,” Nivelle answered. “Or in your words—our Rootkeeper. The one who listens to the roots and keeps their voice.”
“Oh. Your father?” Elara glanced quickly, one eyebrow rising.
Nivelle gave a small nod, her face unreadable. “Yes. Furion. He’s very old, but still stands… though he sometimes needs a staff.”
Lioren muttered under his breath, “Old, stubborn, and too fond of talking.”
After following the descending path deeper into stillness, they finally stopped at the base of the light-tree. There, nestled against its massive roots, stood a structure—not fully enclosed, its walls formed from gently spiraling vines, shaping an open dome like the embrace of the forest itself. Roots hung from the ceiling, faintly glowing, and the air grew heavier around them… as if the place was holding the breath of something ancient.
In front of the house stood a small figure with a staff.
He didn’t move. His eyes were shut, as though listening to something only he could hear. The tip of his staff touched the ground, and the roots beneath it quivered ever so slightly. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes—pale, clouded, but clearly not blind. His gaze swept toward Elara and Louis, piercing deeper than words could reach, before shifting toward Nivelle and Lioren.
Dim light from the roots below illuminated his silver hair, now faded to soft ash. And in the thickening silence… time seemed to stop. Even the rustling leaves dared not move.
“It has been a long time,” the elder said softly, his voice rough but steady. “Since foreign light last touched Nyelva.” He raised his staff slightly—his movement slow but filled with weight. Instantly, all Elarin nearby bowed in silence.
“And even longer still… since the roots chose not to reject it.”
He lifted his staff higher, then gazed directly at Elara and Louis with eyes no longer clouded, but made clear by time too old to name. His voice was faint yet firm as he spoke:
“??????? ??????? ka Nyelva, cahaya asing.”
“Wilujeung sumping ka Nyelva, foreign lights.”
The roots beneath their feet trembled gently, as if joining the welcome—not merely as soil, but as memory.
Louis nearly muttered under his breath, voice low but audible.
“Willy-jeng… soup-ing… kah-nyell-va?”
Nivelle instantly grinned. “Willy who?”
Elara covered her face with one hand.
“Please never become a language diplomat.”
Lioren stared at Louis, unimpressed. “It means ‘welcome.’”
“I am Furion Thimeldava,” the elder said, gently pressing the tip of his staff into the ground. A pulse of soft light rippled outward from where it touched. “These are my children—Lioren Furiondava and Nivelle Furiondava.”
His voice was calm, but each word carried the weight of centuries—of knowledge etched deep into silence.
“I am Paningal... the Fourth Rootkeeper. Guardian of Nyelva, and the keeper of the Elarin. It is an honor to meet you, children of men.”
Elara lowered her head in respect. She stepped forward slightly and placed her right hand over her chest.
“I am Elara Gofdraig,” she said, her tone composed but clear. “From the capital Regiamagna… village of Leondhardt, in the Province of Rhysleonaria.”
Furion gave a slow nod, as if the name had once drifted through the roots long ago. His eyes narrowed slightly—not with suspicion, but with a faint trace of recognition he could not yet place.
“As am I,” Louis added after a breath. He straightened his posture and pressed a few fingers to his chest.
“Louis Gwinfael, of a winemaking family. We come from the same village.”
“The roots do not know your names,” Furion murmured, closing his eyes for a moment. “But they do not reject you either. That… is rare.”
When his eyes opened again, they were softer.
“Then let us listen—not as guardians, but as fellow beings seeking to understand.”
He glanced between Elara and Louis, then slowly stepped to the right.
“But why have you come to this place?” he asked, voice low, deep.
“Nhal Vireth is no place for idle curiosity. This is not hospitable land, nor merely a pit of physical depth. It breathes. And those who delve too far... rarely return whole.”
He turned to face them fully, and for a brief moment, his eyes flashed sharp with warning.
“I know you may carry reasons—but you also carry risks. This place will change because of your presence. And you will be changed because of it. Are you prepared to face the kinds of things even we… hesitate to name?”
Nivelle glanced at Elara, who remained quiet, her gaze fixed on Furion’s face. She could tell Elara wasn’t refusing to answer—she was carefully considering the right words for something too complex for a simple explanation.
With a gentle but urging tone, Nivelle spoke,
“Father… they’re our guests. Perhaps we should continue this inside? This place feels too exposed.”
Furion nodded slowly, offering the faintest of smiles.
“That was my intent,” he said. “Good roots do not merely greet… they offer shelter.”
He raised his staff once more, and the ground beneath them began to glow with a gentle sheen, forming patterns like unfurling leaves—a silent invitation.
From the outside, the home of the Paningal looked like a blend of dwelling and sanctuary. Its two main levels were shaped from the hollowed trunk of a colossal tree, reinforced by glowing, interwoven tendrils that coiled like living veins. The first floor was completely open, with a smooth, thick root-floor and low wooden tables, surrounded by soft moss-padded seats. At the center, a small flame flickered—not from wood, but from luminous mushrooms that radiated a soft warmth, like morning sunlight.
The second floor could only be reached by a spiral staircase made of living vines that responded to every step. Above, the walls were more enclosed, but filled with tiny crystal windows that caught and reflected the light from the roots outside. Shelves of scrolls, rune-marked stones, and dried flower stems bound with Threads of Light lined the space—a place not just for sleep, but for reflection, and for storing the memories of a people.
As they stepped inside, the air felt… different. Not warmer, not colder—but filled with subtle resonance, as though the house itself remembered every sound and every footfall. Louis's eyes narrowed as he inspected the walls. Elara remained composed, her gaze fixed on Furion, who now walked slowly to the center of the glowing hearth and sat down with measured grace—like a sage returning to a hall that had waited centuries for his return.
The room wasn’t just sacred—it was breathtaking.
Light from the ceiling roots fell like natural curtains, diffusing gently across the walls carved with intricate markings. Every surface pulsed faintly with life, as if they had been etched not just with tools, but with feeling. Small plants hung from the corners, glowing softly like tame fireflies. The house seemed to contain more than just the central chamber—arched passageways stretched in different directions, each with a distinct aura, as if every hall held a unique purpose.
From one of the tunnels—what Elara and Louis assumed to be a kitchen—emerged a petite figure moving with quiet grace. Her long hair shimmered in shades of silver-green, flowing like leaf-petals in the wind. She carried two small bowls made of porous warm stone, filled with a blue-green broth that let off a soft, sweet steam. In her other hand, she held two leaf-folded cups filled with a liquid that looked like milk—but shimmered faintly with light.
Furion smiled as soon as he saw her.
“This is my wife,” he said, raising his hand gently toward the woman, “the most beautiful soul in all of Nyelva… Faevara Furionvala.”
He hadn’t raised his voice—but the entire room seemed to echo with the quiet reverence of his words, as if even the roots agreed, without saying a thing.
Elara and Louis quickly rose from where they sat and offered respectful bows.
“It’s an honor,” Elara said sincerely.
Louis bowed a little deeper and added, “Thank you for your welcome.”
Without a word, Lioren turned and headed toward the vine staircase coiling up the left side of the room. He glanced briefly at his family before muttering,
“I’ll go ahead. There’s something I need to do.”
Within seconds, his figure vanished into the upper floor, leaving the space slowly settling into calm once more.
“Please, enjoy,” said Faevara softly. Her voice carried no insistence, no extravagance—just a simple, genuine invitation.
Elara nodded slightly in return, then brought the first spoonful to her lips. The warmth of the broth spread across her tongue, sweet like honey, gentle like fresh cream, with a faint aroma of herbs and morning dew that defied description. Each sip tasted different—subtle shifts, as if the liquid adjusted itself to her being. She paused, staring into the bowl, and whispered,
“It tastes like milk blended with honey... it’s wonderful.”
Louis, who had been quietly observing, finally lifted his leaf-folded cup and took a sip. He blinked, then gave a small nod.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he muttered, “but... mushrooms can taste good too.”
Faevara smiled and seated herself gracefully beside Furion, folding her hands over her lap.
“That is no ordinary mushroom,” she said gently, yet with a voice full of meaning.
“It only grows in places that have held memory for over a thousand years. We call it Sura Laleu—the Root-Calming Elixir. It is not just food—it is part of us. It brings peace to restless roots… and clarity to weary hearts.”
Elara looked back into her bowl, narrowing her eyes slightly, as if trying to decipher a taste that passed beyond her tongue—something that touched deeper.
“It feels like... remembering something I’ve never experienced,” she whispered.
Louis nodded slowly beside her, still drinking in silence, immersed in a flavor too profound for logic.
At last, Elara set her bowl down and turned to Furion. Her voice was steady, but each word carried the weight of purpose and long preparation.
“I have a reason for coming here,” she said. “I’ve never stepped into a place like this before… which is why I’ve trained relentlessly. So I’d be strong enough to pass through this place without breaking.”
She took a slow breath.
“But lately, something has begun to trouble me. Nhal Vireth... bears an uncanny resemblance to something written only once—in a single book. A place called N’Zoth Rae.
That’s why I’m here.”
All three Elarin before her—Furion, Faevara, and Nivelle—froze at once. Their eyes widened, almost simultaneously. Above them, the glowing roots pulsed faintly, as if they too had heard the name—and shivered.
“Where… did you hear that name?” Furion asked. His voice was lower than before—more like an ancient chant spoken with reverent caution.
Elara met his gaze without flinching.
“From my younger brother,” she answered.
“And I hope… I can find answers here.”
Furion did not reply immediately. He closed his eyes again, as though listening to something older than even his own memories.
“Hm… where should I begin...” he murmured.
“No layer in Nhal Vireth is truly safe,” he continued quietly.
“Even though we dwell within the hill, danger can come at any moment… and in ways no one could predict. That is why our ancestors created a barrier—an ancient one, invisible to the human eye. It blocks all forms of vis, detection magic, and identity resonance.
From that moment, we built our own ecosystem. Every aspect of our society… grew from roots that chose to hide.”
“Eleven thousand years have passed since we first came here—merging with this layer. And through all that time, the place remained unchanged. Silent. Deep.
But three thousand years ago… something stirred below.”
“Not a sound. Not a light.
But… a presence.”
Faevara lowered her head, her voice now no more than a whispered prayer.
“We sent explorers. The finest trackers of our race. And each time they returned… they did not return as themselves. Their forms twisted. Their words vanished. Their faces turned hollow.
And all of them… died within three days.”
She looked toward Elara, her eyes now darker, heavier.
“Since then… we named the lowest layer with a title that must not be spoken lightly: N’Zoth Rae.”
Profundum vigilat sine voce.
The depth watches without voice.