Seated on the platform near the giant tree, Elysian let out a shallow breath, his gaze flickering across the sacred clearing. The towering branches swayed gently in the breeze, their movement carrying a faint, mournful hum—a sound so low it felt more like a vibration in his chest than something his ears could grasp. He’d thought exploring the sanctuary would bring him answers, maybe even a sense of awe. Instead, the weight of grief pressed against him from every direction, suffocating and relentless.

  He glanced over to Kaerthlyn, who sat a short distance away. Her usually sharp, vibrant expression was dulled, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular. One moment she’d muttered a half-hearted jest about Brodhar’s endless appetite, and the next, she was silent again, her jaw tight, hands gripping her knees as though to anchor herself.

  “Kaerthlyn,” Elysian ventured softly, leaning closer. “Are you alright?”

  She blinked, as though startled to find herself there, still present. “Fine,” she said, the word clipped and unconvincing. Her gaze darted to the great tree, its massive trunk illuminated by faint streams of sunlight breaking through the canopy. “Just… thinking.”

  Elysian didn’t press her. What could he say? He’d seen her expression when she told him that the Matriarch had pulled her from the trials, leaving the others to their fates. Survivors’ guilt had settled over her like a second skin, and he could feel the cracks in her usual bravado.

  Next to him, Sybil shifted uncomfortably. The young soldier’s fingers fidgeted with a fraying leather strap on his belt, his eyes darting between Kaerthlyn, and the trolls and thralgars in the distance. “This festival,” he said, his voice breaking the silence, “what’s it even for? They’re all so… broken.”

  “Thar’Luntharok,” Kaerthlyn murmured, her voice quieter than usual. “The Song of the Ancients. It’s supposed to honor Kral Gorathar and Elyn’drar. A celebration of their sacrifice and the wisdom they left behind.” She exhaled heavily, the sound almost a groan. “But how do you celebrate when one of the highlights of this festival was to welcome those who returned from the trial?”

  “I can see why they are dragging their feet. No one wants to do this f*cking festival when their loss are still so raw.”

  “Sounds like they should cancel it,” Sybil muttered, earning a sharp look from Kaerthlyn.

  “You don’t just cancel Thar’Luntharok,” she snapped, her tone cutting but weary. “It’s not about us. It’s about remembering. About showing the ancestors that their sacrifices weren’t in vain.”

  Brodhar, the hulking troll who had trailed them since their aimless walk began, let out a low rumble, speaking to Kaerthlyn in their own tongue.

  “Remembering does not lessen grief. It sharpens it. Makes it… clearer.” Elysian softly muttered, his eyes turned toward the preparations in the distance, where other trolls and thralgar moved with a solemn efficiency, weaving garlands of shimmering leaves and arranging carved effigies around the great three. “Still, the songs must be sung.”

  Kaerthlyn’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing, her gaze falling to the ground. Elysian felt the awkwardness of their shared silence like an itch under his skin. He’d wanted to explore, to lose himself in the mysteries of this place, but every corner of Vel?n Kralvek seemed steeped in sorrow. The weight of the trial—of those lost and the ones left behind—hung over them all, a shadow they couldn’t shake.

  “Maybe that’s exactly why they need the festival,” Elysian said, his voice low but cutting through the quiet. “To… I don’t know, find closure somehow.”

  Kaerthlyn nodded, though her gaze lingered on the horizon, her thoughts elsewhere.

  Sybil broke the silence, glancing up at the towering tree. “I’ve been meaning to ask… what is this tree? I mean, I’ve seen big trees in Grimwold—trees that could dwarf castle spires—but nothing like this. It’s… colossal.”

  Kaerthlyn turned to the tree, her expression softening into something almost reverent. For a moment, she said nothing, her eyes tracing the intricate knots of its bark as if reading an ancient story. Finally, she murmured, “Vel?n Throrgoth. In our tongue, it means Sacred Root of Burden or The Root that Bears the Ancestors’ Weight. It’s one of the tallest trees in Grimwold.”

  “Vel?n Throrgoth,” Sybil repeated, testing the words. “Sacred Root of Burden. That’s… heavy.”

  “It is.” Her voice carried an unspoken depth. “The name holds a lot of meaning for us.”

  Elysian studied her, then the tree, his gaze climbing the impossibly branches and leaves. “Your words… your names. They’re fascinating. Every one of them feels like it carries an entire history.”

  He didn’t need to say more—the tree had already captivated him. Its sheer size never stopped surprising him, no matter how many times he’d seen it. But it wasn’t just its grandeur that caught him—it was the feeling. Something deep and unnameable stirred in his chest every time he stood beneath it.

  He caught Sybil staring as well, eyes wide with something close to awe.

  ‘It’s not just me.’

  The tree seemed alive in a way no other had been—its roots, thick as rivers, twisting into the earth as though they held the entire forest together. The faint hum of the wind in its branches sounded like whispers, low and resonant, brushing against the edge of understanding.

  “Why does it feel like it knows me?” Elysian whispered even though the idea was absurd, but it settled in his chest like a truth. There was no danger here. No instinct to run or fight. If anything, he felt lighter, as though the weight he’d been carrying had shifted, even if only for a moment.

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  ‘Peace… That’s what it is. How strange.’

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Sybil’s voice startled him, mirroring his thoughts. “It’s like… it’s watching us.”

  “Not watching,” Elysian replied, almost on instinct. “Guarding.”

  Sybil frowned, but before either of them could say more, the air was split by a loud commotion behind them.

  Kaerthlyn turned, rising quickly, her gaze sharp and alarmed. She stiffened as if the distant voices were a blade poised at her back.

  Elysian was already on his feet, the brief tranquility shattering like glass. His voice cut through the mounting tension. “Is it a fight?” His tone shifted, edged with wariness as he caught the flicker of recognition in her eyes.

  Kaerthlyn didn’t answer. Instead, she turned to Brodhar. “Stone, stay here.”

  Before Elysian could press for more, she was already moving, her pace brisk, her posture taut. Elysian exhaled heavily and followed, Sybil close behind. Whatever this was, it didn’t bode well.

  The commotion wasn’t far. As they rounded to a massive branch, the source of the noise became clear—a standoff. Two groups of young thralgar stood squared off against each other, barely holding back from turning words into blows.

  Kaerthlyn arrived just in time to wedge herself between them.

  Elysian hung back, taking it all in. The group on one side was smaller in number but visibly more imposing. Broad shoulders, taller in height, and a palpable air of superiority. He recognized a few faces from earlier, their arrogance unmistakable

  ‘Clan Gulthram… Hmm. I don’t see that brute, Durvalk.’

  Elysian’s gaze sharpened, locking onto the figure standing at the center of the Gulthram group. This one wasn’t Durvalk—no, this half-troll was cut from a deadlier cloth. He was younger, leaner, his muscular frame coiled like a drawn bow ready for a kill. There was no lumbering brute strength here; instead, he radiated something far more dangerous—a cold, calculated hunter.

  ‘Someone like me—a killer.’

  Elysian studied him, unease crawling beneath his skin. The thralgar’s every movement was deliberate, his posture calm but razor-sharp. Elysian realized, a chill sweeping over him. Where Durvalk had been raw, unbridled power, this one was refined lethality. The kind of threat you didn’t see coming until it was too late.

  ‘If it came to a fight, could I even take him?’

  All kinds of questions gnawed at the noble, and his instincts screamed the answer. This wasn’t an opponent you faced lightly—not even with your life on the line.

  The thralgar’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp and assessing, and for a brief, unsettling moment, their gazes locked. Then came the smile—slow, knowing, a predator’s grin.

  Elysian’s stomach tightened, and he looked away, feigning disinterest as his attention shifted to the opposing group.

  ‘I have enough problems already. No need to add another.’

  The other group was larger but lacked the imposing air of their rivals. While they couldn’t match the Gulthram in sheer size or menace, they made up for it with fiery defiance. Their stance, their movements—it all screamed ferocity, even in the face of superior adversary.

  Kaerthlyn’s intervention held the brewing storm at bay, if only barely. The Gulthram thralgar regarded her with a restrained respect, their deference subtle but tinged with calculation. A few inclined their heads, gestures stiff and formal, as though acknowledging a necessary authority rather than offering genuine regard.

  The leader of the group stepped forward, engaging Kaerthlyn in a brief exchange. Elysian watched closely. The dynamic between them was different from what he’d seen earlier with Durvalk—less overt hostility, more restrained courtesy. Still, he couldn’t be certain whether the respect was genuine or strategic.

  The conversation ended with a curt nod from the leader, and his group began to retreat. Yet, even in retreat, their sharp tongues didn’t rest. A few couldn’t resist tossing venomous parting shots, their words cutting through the air like daggers.

  Elysian’s gaze shifted to the opposing group, now bristling with barely restrained anger. Tempers flared but Kaerthlyn held firm, her posture unyielding as she placed herself between them.

  “You seemed fixated on that thralgar earlier,” Sybil muttered, his voice low as his eyes flicked toward Elysian. “Recognize him?”

  “No,” Elysian replied, his tone steady, his eyes observing the retreating group. “First time seeing him.”

  Before the Gulthram could get any far, their leader glanced back. His gaze met Elysian’s, and for a fleeting moment, a smirk curled his lips. Then came the wink—a mocking gesture that sent a ripple of unease down the noble’s mind.

  “He’s dangerous,” Elysian said, his voice firm. “Extremely dangerous.”

  Sybil’s expression changed, his usual bravado giving way to unease. He studied Elysian for a long, quiet moment before following his gaze toward the retreating thralgar. He said nothing more, but the tension in his posture betrayed his thoughts.

  The leader of the larger group surged forward suddenly, when another round of insults thrown their way, his frustration boiling over. Elysian couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was unmistakable—rage laced with pride.

  Kaerthlyn intercepted him with a raised hand, her stance firm and unyielding. Her words were quiet, measured, but the young leader’s anger only grew. His retort was loud, sharp—practically an insult hurled at her. Elysian caught the edge of disdain in the tone, hostility clear.

  The leader turned abruptly and stormed off, his group trailing behind him reluctantly.

  Kaerthlyn remained still for a moment, the tension in her shoulders slowly easing as the confrontation dissolved. Her head dipped slightly, and a sigh slipped free, soft and weary.

  Elysian watched her carefully, his thoughts churning. He lingered on the droop of her shoulders, the sadness that flickered across her face before she masked it.

  ‘They’re her age. But there’s no camaraderie here—only bitterness. Anger. She’s the Matriarch’s granddaughter, yet they treat her like this. Why?’

  Kaerthlyn finally turned back toward them. Her expression was carefully composed, but the sadness in her eyes lingered like an aftertaste.

  “Doesn’t seem like the festival spirit is catching on,” Sybil offered, his attempt at levity falling flat. Elysian didn’t respond. His attention remained on Kaerthlyn, his thoughts heavy.

  ‘This isn’t just a petty squabble. Whatever’s behind it… it runs deeper than pride or rivalry.’

  A strained silence hung between them as they started back toward their spot. The tension lingered like an unwelcome shadow, each step heavy with unspoken thoughts. Before they could get far, an old thralgar stepped into their path. Her presence was commanding despite her age, the lines on her face carved deep like ancient runes.

  “Halda?” Kaerthlyn’s voice carried a rare deference, one she reserved only for the Matriarch. Her surprise was evident. “Does Grandmother require something from me?”

  Halda smiled softly, her weathered features creasing with an almost maternal warmth. “No, child,” she replied, her tone as steady as stone. Then her gaze shifted to Elysian.

  Her smile lingered, but there was something in her eyes that made Elysian’s throat tighten. He felt as though she could see right through him, peeling back every carefully held layer.

  “The Matriarch has sent me to fetch the rootless,” she said, her voice calm yet impossible to ignore.

  Elysian bristled at the word—rootless. It was as alien as it was cutting, but he couldn’t bring himself to argue. He swallowed hard, nodding stiffly.

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