A week after the interrupted sacrifice, tension in the grove reached a breaking point. The visible success of the alternative system had won many converts, but the traditionalist faction led by Deeproots refused to accept what they considered a temporary anomaly. Daily inspections and dire predictions of eventual catastrophe had created an atmosphere of uncertainty that threatened the community's stability.

  Azaril was tending the central Cycle Fruit tree when Willowheart arrived, her expression troubled. "The Council has been in emergency session since dawn," she reported. "Deeproots has made a formal demand that cannot be easily dismissed."

  "What kind of demand?" Azaril asked, straightening from his work.

  "He invokes an ancient tradition—the Root Trial." Her voice dropped lower. "It's rarely used, even among sylvans. For a non-sylvan..." She shook her head, concern evident in the wilting of the small flowers woven into her hair.

  Silvius, who had been quietly observing nearby, moved closer. "Expin this Root Trial."

  "The subject connects directly to the consciousness of the eldest trees for judgment," Willowheart expined. "Not through a Grove Keeper's mediation, but directly—mind to ancient mind. The forest itself evaluates one's intentions and actions."

  "That sounds reasonable," Azaril said. "If the forest approves of the alternative system, this could resolve the debate definitively."

  Willowheart's expression grew more troubled. "You don't understand. The connection is dangerous even for sylvans born with natural affinity for pnt communion. For an outsider..." She left the implication hanging.

  "What are the risks?" Silvius asked, his silver eyes narrowed.

  "Mental dissolution. Permanent disorientation. In rare cases, death." She counted off the possibilities with obvious reluctance. "Our minds are prepared from birth for tree communication. Yours is not."

  Azaril considered this information carefully. The trial sounded dangerous, yet it also offered an opportunity to resolve the community's division through the forest's own judgment.

  "The Council cannot officially refuse Deeproots' demand," Willowheart continued. "But they've sent me to warn you that you have every right to decline. No outsider has undergone the Root Trial in living memory."

  "Which is precisely why it was demanded," Silvius observed. "They expect refusal, which would undermine your position."

  Azaril nodded, understanding the political strategy at work. "When would this trial take pce?"

  "Tonight, at moonrise. The nighttime communion is... more intense." Willowheart hesitated. "Azaril, please consider carefully. Your alternative system is already implemented. Given time, its success will speak for itself."

  "Time during which the community remains divided," Azaril noted. "How long before that division creates real damage?"

  The question remained rhetorical as a formal delegation approached. Trial Conductor Rootjudge led the group, his ancient form adorned with ceremonial bark patterns and root-like tendrils woven into his hair. He was fnked by representatives from both traditional and progressive factions of the Council.

  "Azaril of the demons," Rootjudge announced formally. "The Council conveys a request that you submit to the Root Trial to verify your intentions and the validity of your alternative system."

  The careful phrasing as a "request" rather than a demand was clearly a concession from the progressive faction, giving Azaril an honorable way to decline.

  "I accept," Azaril replied without hesitation.

  A ripple of surprise passed through the delegation. Clearly, they had expected reluctance or outright refusal. Even Rootjudge's impassive expression flickered momentarily.

  "You understand the nature of this trial?" he asked, studying Azaril intently. "The risks to one not born of the forest?"

  "Willowheart has expined them," Azaril confirmed. "If the forest itself is to judge, I welcome its evaluation."

  Rootjudge nodded slowly. "Prepare yourself then. At moonrise, you will face the eldest consciousness. Few outsiders have attempted such communion. Fewer still have emerged with mind intact."

  After providing basic instructions for mental preparation, the delegation departed to make arrangements for the evening's trial. As they moved away, Silvius turned to Azaril with uncharacteristic directness.

  "This is unnecessarily dangerous," he stated, a hint of golden fire flickering momentarily in his silver eyes. "The evidence of the system's success grows daily. Given time—"

  "Time is exactly what the traditionalists are counting on," Azaril interrupted gently. "Every day of division weakens the community and threatens the alternative system's continued implementation. This trial offers a chance to resolve the doubt definitively."

  "Or a chance for you to lose yourself in ancient consciousness," Silvius countered, his concern evident in the unusual intensity of his expression.

  Willowheart looked between them, clearly sharing Silvius's concern but understanding Azaril's reasoning. "I'll help you prepare," she offered. "There are meditation techniques that might strengthen your mind for the encounter."

  The hours before moonrise passed quickly. Azaril spent them in quiet preparation with Willowheart, learning techniques for maintaining mental cohesion during pnt communion. Silvius remained nearby, his expression unreadable but his attention unwavering.

  As darkness fell, a solemn procession formed to escort Azaril to the Eldest Grove—a sacred section of forest rarely visited even by sylvans. The ancient trees there predated the Great Withering by centuries, their massive trunks and sprawling root systems creating an environment of palpable sentience.

  The Witness Council assembled in a semicircle at the grove's edge—Council Leader Ancientbark, Deeproots and other traditionalists on one side, progressive members including Newbranch on the other. Elderoak stood slightly apart, his position as Grove Keeper giving him a distinct role in the proceedings.

  At the center of the grove stood the Communion Root—an enormous exposed root vein that glowed faintly with bioluminescent fungi. The sight was both beautiful and intimidating, especially given what Azaril knew awaited him.

  "The Root Trial begins," Rootjudge announced as moonlight filtered through the ancient canopy. "Azaril of the demons comes before the forest consciousness for judgment of intention and action."

  Azaril stepped forward as directed, kneeling beside the Communion Root. From the corner of his eye, he saw Silvius standing at the edge of the gathering, his normally composed features tight with concern.

  "Pce your hands upon the root and open your mind," Rootjudge instructed. "If your intentions are true and your actions justified, the forest will know."

  Taking a deep breath, Azaril pced his palms on the Communion Root. The surface felt warm and strangely alive beneath his touch, pulsing with subtle energy. He closed his eyes, focusing on the mental opening techniques Willowheart had taught him.

  For several moments, nothing happened beyond a tingling sensation in his palms. Then, with startling suddenness, his consciousness expanded.

  There was no gentle transition, no gradual immersion. One moment he was kneeling in the grove; the next, his mind was submerged in an ancient awareness so vast it defied comprehension. Thousands of years of memory, millions of interconnected experiences, a perspective that encompassed entire ecosystems rather than individual lives—all flooded into him simultaneously.

  Azaril fought to maintain his sense of self amid the overwhelming input. Willowheart's techniques helped, creating a mental framework that allowed him to process the experience without dissolving completely into it. Still, the sheer scale of the forest consciousness threatened to overwhelm his individual identity.

  Time lost meaning. What might have been moments or hours passed as Azaril struggled to navigate the ancient awareness. Gradually, he began to discern patterns in the mental ndscape—not thoughts as he understood them, but something more fundamental: impressions, sensations, the slow pulse of seasons and centuries.

  The forest was evaluating him in return, its ancient consciousness examining his intentions with methodical thoroughness. He felt its attention focus on his memories of implementing the alternative system, then expand to encompass his broader journey—his time in the Human Empire, his departure from the demon realm, even fragments of his childhood as a prince who never fit traditional expectations.

  Then, unexpectedly, the forest consciousness shifted, drawing him deeper into its own memories. Azaril found himself experiencing impressions from centuries past—the original retionship between sylvans and forest before the Great Withering. He witnessed the harmonious exchange of energy through root networks simir to what he had implemented, the mutual benefit that had once flowed naturally between people and pnts.

  The memories continued, showing the catastrophic period of the Great Withering. Drought, disease, dying trees—the ecosystem colpsing under pressures it couldn't adapt to quickly enough. He felt the desperation of that time, the frantic search for solutions as knowledge-keepers succumbed before passing on their wisdom. The first sacrifices emerged from that crisis—a desperate measure that worked just enough to become tradition, continuing long after its necessity had passed.

  Throughout this immersion, Azaril struggled to maintain his separate identity. The forest consciousness moved at a pace so different from human or demon thought—simultaneously more patient and more immediate—that staying anchored to his own perspective required constant effort. Several times he felt himself beginning to dissolve, his individual awareness blurring into the greater whole.

  Each time, he fought back to distinctness, using the techniques Willowheart had taught him and his own natural mental abilities—the very ones that had made him different among demons. Ironically, the mind-strength that had been considered weakness in his homend now served as his protection against losing himself entirely.

  In what felt like both an eternity and an instant, the forest completed its evaluation. Its final impression washed over Azaril with unmistakable crity—acknowledgment, acceptance, and something that might be transted as gratitude for the restoration of ancient harmony.

  Then, abruptly, the connection severed.

  Azaril colpsed forward, barely catching himself before his face struck the forest floor. His entire body trembled uncontrolbly, sweat drenching his clothes despite the cool night air. The mental strain had manifested physically, leaving him weaker than he had felt since childhood training sessions in the demon realm.

  Through blurred vision, he saw the Witness Council leaning forward, their expressions ranging from concern to suspicion to astonishment. Rootjudge approached cautiously, kneeling to examine him with careful scrutiny.

  "You remain yourself?" the Trial Conductor asked, genuine surprise evident in his voice.

  Azaril tried to speak but found his throat uncooperative. He managed a slight nod instead.

  "What did you witness?" Rootjudge pressed, clearly not expecting a coherent response from someone who had just undergone such an ordeal.

  Drawing on reserves of strength he hadn't known he possessed, Azaril forced words through his parched lips. "The... original pattern. Before the Withering." His voice emerged as barely a whisper. "The sacrifices... were emergency measures. Not... the original way."

  A murmur passed through the Witness Council. Elderoak stepped forward, his ancient features showing both concern and curiosity. "You saw the time before?"

  Azaril nodded weakly. "The network... exactly as we implemented. Mutual benefit... not consumption."

  The effort of speaking depleted his remaining strength. His vision darkened at the edges, his consciousness threatening to retreat entirely. He was vaguely aware of argument erupting among the Council members, their voices seeming to come from an increasing distance.

  Through this haze, he felt strong arms lifting him carefully. Silvius had moved to his side with surprising speed, gathering Azaril against his chest with gentle but firm support.

  "The trial is concluded," Silvius announced, his voice carrying a subtle resonance that stilled the Council's debate. "He requires rest to recover."

  "The forest must still render judgment," Deeproots objected, stepping forward with a frown.

  "Look around you," Elderoak said quietly, gesturing to the grove.

  All eyes turned to observe an extraordinary sight. The ancient trees had begun to shift their roots above ground, forming patterns that unmistakably mimicked the alternative system Azaril had implemented. More striking still, the bioluminescent fungi throughout the grove had rearranged themselves into the same configuration, creating a glowing representation of the energy network.

  "I believe the forest has rendered its judgment," Elderoak stated. "No further interpretation is required."

  Deeproots and several other traditionalists stared at the manifestation with expressions of disbelief and reluctant recognition. Whatever arguments they might have prepared, the forest's response was too direct to dismiss.

  Sensing the conclusion of formal proceedings, Silvius lifted Azaril fully into his arms. The demon prince's head rested against Silvius's shoulder, his normally vigorous frame limp with exhaustion. Despite his weakened state, Azaril was acutely aware of the physical intimacy of their position—his companion's strength supporting him completely, the steady heartbeat audible against his ear, the careful way Silvius adjusted his hold to minimize discomfort.

  "I will take him to recover," Silvius informed the assembly, his tone brooking no argument. "He has endured what few non-sylvans could survive, and the forest has spoken clearly through him and around us."

  With that, he turned and began carrying Azaril from the Eldest Grove, moving with surprising grace despite his burden. Willowheart hurried alongside them, her expression tight with concern.

  "The mental strain is severe," she whispered, examining Azaril's pale features. "Even sylvans require days to recover from deep communion with the eldest trees."

  "He will recover," Silvius replied with quiet certainty. "His mind is stronger than it appears."

  As they left the sacred grove, Azaril drifted between consciousness and something deeper. The overwhelming experience of forest communion had left his mental barriers weakened, making him unusually receptive to his immediate surroundings. He found himself acutely aware of Silvius—not just the physical support, but something more. A sense of ancient patience, of carefully contained power, of concern that ran deeper than mere companionship.

  The journey back to their dwelling passed in fragments of awareness for Azaril. The gentle sway of movement as Silvius carried him. Willowheart's voice giving instructions for recovery. The subtle shift in Silvius's hold whenever they navigated difficult terrain, always minimizing discomfort with careful attention.

  By the time they reached their living structure, Azaril had regained enough strength to be somewhat more aware, though still incapable of walking unassisted. Silvius pced him carefully on his sleeping mat, the movement gentle despite the evident strength in his arms.

  "Should I remain?" Willowheart asked, having prepared a restorative tea from forest pnts known to support mental recovery.

  "I will watch over him," Silvius replied, accepting the tea with a nod of thanks. "Your knowledge has been invaluable, but you should return to the grove. The Council will be deliberating, and the traditionalists may attempt to control the interpretation of what occurred."

  Willowheart's expression shifted with concern. "You're right. Even with the forest's manifestation, Deeproots will work to minimize its significance." She gnced toward Azaril with worry. "The trial has provided powerful evidence, but the struggle is not yet over."

  After providing final instructions for Azaril's care, she departed, leaving them alone in the quiet dwelling. Silvius helped Azaril sit up enough to sip the restorative tea, supporting his back with one arm while holding the cup to his lips with his free hand.

  "You took an unnecessary risk," Silvius said softly, his voice cking accusation despite the words.

  Azaril managed a weak smile after swallowing some tea. "It was... the most direct path."

  "Direct, yes. Dangerous, undeniably." Silvius adjusted his position to provide better support, the movement bringing their faces closer together. "What you experienced... was it what you expected?"

  "More," Azaril whispered. "So much more. The forest remembers... everything. The original harmony..." His voice faded as exhaustion overtook him again.

  "Rest now," Silvius instructed, easing him back onto the sleeping mat. "Your mind needs time to reintegrate. The Council must still formalize their interpretation of the trial's outcome."

  Azaril reached out weakly, catching Silvius's wrist before he could move away. "Stay close," he requested, the unusual vulnerability in his voice surprising even himself. "The connection... left everything raw."

  Without hesitation, Silvius settled beside the sleeping mat, his presence solid and reassuring. "I remain," he said simply.

  As Azaril drifted toward sleep, he was distantly aware of voices and movement in the grove—the continuing debate among Council members, the community gathering to hear accounts of what had transpired. The trial had provided powerful evidence, but the formal verdict had yet to be rendered. Despite his exhaustion, concern flickered through his fading consciousness. Would the forest's clear response be enough to overcome centuries of tradition?

  His st awareness before unconsciousness cimed him was the comforting weight of Silvius's hand resting lightly on his arm—an anchor to his individual self after being submerged in ancient collective awareness. Whatever verdict awaited in the morning, this connection remained real and present, a physical closeness that felt both necessary and significant after centuries of unspoken boundaries between them.