The summer days flowed one into another as Azaril integrated himself further into grove life. Unlike the winter settlement's cool reserve, the summer community welcomed his questions and observations. He spent many hours with Newgrowth and Quickleaf, discussing their experimental growing techniques and sharing compatible knowledge from other realms.

  These discussions inevitably led to deeper topics. As trust grew between them, conversations began to touch on subjects that had remained veiled in the winter grove.

  "You've asked about feeding the deep roots," Newgrowth said one afternoon as they worked in the experimental garden. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper despite their retive privacy. "It's not something we discuss openly."

  "I've noticed," Azaril replied, carefully keeping his tone neutral. "Yet it seems central to your society's practices."

  Newgrowth exchanged gnces with Quickleaf before continuing. "There's someone you should meet. Not here. Tonight, by the river bend."

  The mysterious invitation hung in the air between them, neither eborating further. Azaril merely nodded his acceptance, recognizing the significance of their willingness to share guarded knowledge.

  The appointed meeting pce y where the river curved around a massive stone outcropping, creating a natural chamber of privacy. Moonlight filtered through overhanging branches, casting dappled silver patterns on the gently flowing water. Azaril arrived to find not just Newgrowth and Quickleaf but another young sylvan he hadn't met before.

  "This is Whisperleaf," Quickleaf introduced. "She... has particur knowledge about the deep root rituals."

  Whisperleaf seemed even younger than the others, with a delicate build and leaves that trembled slightly even in still air. Her eyes, however, held a depth of experience that contradicted her apparent youth.

  "You ask questions no one else will speak aloud," she said without preamble. "About those who feed the roots."

  "I seek to understand," Azaril replied.

  "Understanding requires truth," Whisperleaf said. "And the truth is simple, though we dress it in ceremony and justification. Those selected to feed the deep roots never return because they cannot. Their entire life essence is consumed."

  Though Azaril had suspected as much, hearing the confirmation sent a chill through him. "Not a symbolic ritual, then."

  "No symbolism," Whisperleaf confirmed. "The chosen one descends to the Deep Root Caverns with the Sacrifice Selector. They are connected to the root network at specific confluence points. Their energy—their very being—is drawn into the system until nothing remains."

  "And this happens how often?"

  "Four times each year, with the seasonal transitions," Newgrowth answered. "Sometimes more if the forest shows signs of distress."

  "Or during drought or blight," added Quickleaf. "Times of greater need require greater... feeding."

  Azaril processed this information, fitting it with what he had already observed about the Root Network Fungus patterns. "Has it always been this way?"

  The three young sylvans exchanged uncertain gnces.

  "The oldest memory trees suggest otherwise," Whisperleaf finally said. "Before my time, I sought communion with ancient groves outside our migration paths. Some hold memories of different patterns—more banced exchanges where many gave small portions rather than one giving everything."

  "Our experiments with nutrient contribution systems are based on those ancient patterns," Newgrowth expined. "But the elders insist the old ways wouldn't provide sufficient energy for current needs. They say the forest has grown too vast, the demands too great."

  "How are the... sacrifices selected?" Azaril asked, using the direct term deliberately.

  A shadow passed over Whisperleaf's face. "The Sacrifice Selector, Deepchoice, enters deep communion with the eldest trees. They supposedly reveal who is most 'compatible' with the current needs." Her tone suggested skepticism about this process.

  "Though it's strange how often the chosen ones are those who question traditions or propose alternatives," Quickleaf added, her voice bitter. "Or those without strong family connections to protect them."

  "Like Dewfall," Whisperleaf whispered.

  The name hung in the air, clearly significant to the group. After a moment, Newgrowth expined.

  "Dewfall was selected at the winter-spring transition. He had been developing new communication methods with boundary trees—techniques that might have reduced the need for deep root feeding."

  "Mourningbranch was his closest friend," Whisperleaf added. "They worked together on many projects. After Dewfall was taken, she withdrew from community activities. She might share more with you, though she rarely speaks of it now."

  Azaril absorbed this information, the pattern becoming clearer with each new piece. "And the community accepts this practice without question?"

  "Most believe it's necessary for forest survival," Quickleaf said. "We're taught from seedling age that feeding the deep roots is the highest honor—a sacred sacrifice that ensures continuation of all life."

  "Those who question disappear into the deep roots," Whisperleaf added quietly. "Eventually, even the questions fade."

  The conversation continued as night deepened, the young sylvans sharing what they knew in hesitant fragments. Their fear was evident despite the summer grove's more open atmosphere. Whatever they revealed to Azaril could potentially mark them for selection, yet they chose to speak anyway—a testimony to both their courage and the depth of their concern about the practice.

  Before they parted, Whisperleaf pressed something into Azaril's hand—a small, smooth seed unlike any he had seen before.

  "Pnt this outside your dwelling," she whispered. "It grows quickly and its flowers change color with approaching danger. If Deepchoice begins watching you too closely, you'll have warning."

  The following days brought careful, measured conversations with other community members. Azaril approached the topic obliquely, observing reactions more than seeking direct answers. Most sylvans responded to any mention of the deep root feeding with ritualized phrases about honor and necessity. Few seemed willing to examine the practice's true nature.

  He finally located Mourningbranch tending a small memorial grove on the settlement's western edge. Unlike most sylvans whose appearance reflected vibrant life, she seemed somehow diminished—her leaves drooping slightly, her skin tone a shade paler than those around her. She worked alone, methodically caring for a cluster of saplings pnted in a perfect circle.

  "These were Dewfall's," she said when she noticed Azaril watching. "His st project. Each sapling grown from seeds he collected during our travels." She didn't ask why Azaril had sought her out. Perhaps his questions about the deep root feedings had already reached her.

  "They're thriving under your care," Azaril observed.

  "He would have done better," she replied. "He understood growth patterns in ways others didn't. His techniques were... innovative."

  "I've heard he was developing new communication methods."

  Mourningbranch's hands stilled on the sapling she was tending. "Who told you that?"

  "Friends who admired his work," Azaril replied carefully.

  She studied him for a long moment before seemingly reaching a decision. "Dewfall believed the deep root system didn't require complete consumption of life energy. He found evidence in boundary groves that the original connection was different—more banced, less demanding."

  "Evidence like altered Root Network Fungus patterns?"

  Her eyes widened slightly. "You've noticed them too."

  "I've spent considerable time studying fungal networks across different environments," Azaril said. "The patterns here show... inconsistencies with their purported function."

  Mourningbranch gnced around before lowering her voice. "Dewfall discovered ancient connection points in abandoned groves—pces where the root system was configured for multiple simultaneous contributions rather than single-point consumption. He was documenting them, creating maps of the original network."

  "What happened to his research?"

  "Taken when he was selected." Her voice cracked slightly. "Three days after he showed his preliminary findings to Elder Deeproots, the Sacrifice Selector visited our dwelling. Said the eldest trees had 'chosen' him for the highest honor."

  The timing confirmed the young sylvans' suspicions that selection sometimes targeted those who questioned traditions. "Did you challenge the selection?"

  Mourningbranch's ugh held no humor. "Challenge? How? The Sacrifice Selector speaks with the authority of the eldest trees. To question the selection is to question the forest itself." She returned to tending the saplings, her movements now sharp with suppressed emotion. "Besides, by tradition, those chosen must go willingly. The 'gift' must be freely given."

  "Yet given under the weight of community expectation and spiritual authority," Azaril observed.

  "Precisely." She looked up at him, studying his face. "You ask dangerous questions, demon prince. Questions that might lead to your own selection if certain elders hear of them."

  The warning was clear, yet she had chosen to share this information despite the risk. "Thank you for trusting me with this," Azaril said.

  "I trust your outsider's eyes to see what we've been trained to overlook." She pressed soil around the base of a sapling with deliberate care. "Dewfall believed the sacrifice system was not the forest's original design but a distortion introduced during some forgotten crisis. A temporary measure that became permanent tradition."

  Her words aligned perfectly with Azaril's developing theory about the Root Network Fungus patterns. "If evidence supported that view—if an alternative could be demonstrated—would others listen?"

  "Some would," she replied. "Especially here in the summer grove where new growth is celebrated. Others would resist fiercely—those whose authority and purpose are tied to maintaining tradition exactly as it stands."

  As Azaril left the memorial grove, he carried both confirmation of his suspicions and a heavier weight of responsibility. This was no abstract philosophical question but a practice that regurly cimed lives—lives like Dewfall's, ended not by natural cycles but by rigid adherence to potentially corrupted tradition.

  That evening, Azaril found Willowheart near the river, gathering water pnts for healing preparations. He had deliberately avoided questioning her directly about the sacrifice system, sensing her discomfort whenever the topic arose tangentially. Now, with mounting evidence, he decided a more direct approach was necessary.

  "The deep root feeding," he said without preamble. "It's actual sacrifice, isn't it? Complete consumption of life essence."

  Willowheart's hands stilled in the water. For several heartbeats, she didn't move or respond. When she finally looked up, her expression held complex emotions—discomfort, resignation, and a deep sadness.

  "Yes," she said simply.

  "And you accept this practice?" Azaril kept his tone neutral, genuinely curious about her perspective rather than accusatory.

  "What I accept or don't accept matters little against centuries of tradition." She resumed her gathering, though her movements had lost their earlier fluidity. "The sacrifice system predates any living sylvan. We are taught that it ensures the forest's survival."

  "But does it?" Azaril pressed. "Or is it a distortion of an earlier, more banced approach?"

  Willowheart's discomfort visibly increased. "These questions... they're dangerous, Azaril. Not just for you, but for anyone associated with such questioning."

  "Like Dewfall?"

  She flinched slightly at the name. "You've been speaking with Mourningbranch."

  "And others. The summer grove seems less... unified in its acceptance of the practice than the winter community."

  "The summer grove has always harbored more questions." Willowheart sighed. "It's in the nature of the season—growth, change, exploration. But when autumn comes and the harvest cycle begins, those questions typically fade as focus returns to preservation and tradition."

  She stood, gathering her baskets of water pnts. "I cannot discuss this further. Not here. Not now." Her eyes conveyed warning rather than rejection. "Be careful whom you trust with your questions. The Sacrifice Selector has arrived in the grove today, observing for the summer selection."

  The information sent a chill through Azaril despite the warm evening. "When will the selection occur?"

  "Within the week. The midsummer ritual approaches." She turned to go, then paused. "Your questions have merit, Azaril. But questions alone cannot change practices rooted in generations of belief. Only viable alternatives demonstrated with irrefutable evidence might begin such change."

  Her words echoed his conversation with Mourningbranch—a suggestion that proof of alternatives might sway at least some of the community. But gathering such evidence would require deeper access to historical patterns and original root systems than he currently possessed.

  Azaril returned to the dwelling he shared with Silvius, finding his companion examining a collection of bioluminescent fungi they had gathered from the river bank. The small organisms glowed with subtle blue-green light, illuminating Silvius's features in a way that emphasized his otherworldly quality.

  "You've been busy today," Silvius observed without looking up. "Gathering more than just botanical samples, I suspect."

  "Information," Azaril confirmed, settling beside him. "About the deep root feeding ritual."

  "And what have you discovered?"

  "Confirmation that it's actual sacrifice, not symbolic ritual. Selected individuals are completely consumed by the root network."

  Silvius finally looked up from his examination of the fungi, his silver eyes meeting Azaril's directly. What Azaril saw there was not surprise but a deep, ancient sadness—the kind that comes from witnessing countless tragedies across time.

  "You already knew," Azaril said. It wasn't a question.

  "I suspected," Silvius replied, though something in his tone suggested more than suspicion. "Such practices often evolve in cultures facing resource scarcity or existential threats. What begins as emergency measure becomes tradition, then sacred obligation."

  "The younger sylvans believe it wasn't always this way. That an earlier, more banced system existed where many contributed small portions of energy rather than one giving everything."

  "The Root Network Fungus patterns you've been studying would support that theory," Silvius acknowledged. "Natural systems typically favor sustainable exchange over consumption. A networked organism especially would benefit more from multiple connection points with moderate energy transfer than from singur points of complete absorption."

  His analysis was precise and insightful, yet strangely detached—as if discussing a phenomenon observed countless times before rather than a newly discovered horror. This, too, fit the pattern of Silvius's occasional dispys of knowledge no ordinary traveler should possess.

  "The Sacrifice Selector has arrived in the grove," Azaril said. "The midsummer selection will occur within the week."

  Something flickered in Silvius's expression—a momentary intensity quickly masked. "Then your time for research narrows. What will you do with these confirmations?"

  "Continue gathering evidence of the alternative system. The fungal patterns suggest a different configuration is possible, but I need more concrete proof before challenging established practice."

  "A wise approach," Silvius nodded. "Traditions this deeply rooted cannot be changed through accusation alone, especially by an outsider."

  He returned to his examination of the fungi, but Azaril noticed how his hands moved with less precision than usual, betraying subtle distress despite his controlled expression.

  "Does it trouble you?" Azaril asked. "Knowing about the sacrifices?"

  Silvius paused before answering, his eyes fixed on the glowing organisms before him. "All consumption of life carries weight, whether acknowledged or not. Systems that require complete destruction rather than cyclical renewal are... painful to witness." He looked up again, something ancient in his gaze. "Particurly when alternatives exist but remain unseen."

  The conversation drifted to other topics as night deepened, but Azaril carried the memory of that look—of sorrow too profound for his companion's apparent years. It added another piece to the puzzle of Silvius's true nature, suggesting experiences and knowledge spanning far more than a single lifetime.

  Outside their dwelling, the warning seed Whisperleaf had given him had already sprouted, its rapid growth another sylvan mystery. Its first bud would open tomorrow, Azaril estimated—a living gauge of danger in a forest where tradition and innovation continued their ancient dance of conflict and compromise.