In the stillness between heartbeats, in the space where breath ends and soul begins, the Conduits of the Five Trees appeared.
Summoned not by horn or herald, but by root and light and pulse.
They gathered in a sanctified space—formed by the interwoven branches of Efe, Opia, Yorg, Gia, and Draug. Here, the sky shimmered in perpetual twilight. The air rang with the heartbeat of Eldoria itself.
Iyonmana stood at the center—her golden braids cascading like sun rays, her skin glowing with ancestral flame. She did not speak yet. She only looked ahead—eyes distant, haunted.
A swirl of black and violet smoke ruptured the quiet.
“Well then,” came a smooth, velvet voice lined with razors,11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2FlqCNI4cn
“Who dares interrupt my very intimate afternoon with my adorable Sigrun?”
Veyrix, Conduit of Draug, materialized with all the dramatic flair of a noble ghost. His cloak was made of shifting thorns and ash. He smiled—sharp, gleaming, and dangerous.
Zephyros arrived next, descending in silence. His silver robes floated as if caught in a breeze that touched no one else. His presence was grounding, calming—until he spoke in his still, deep voice.
“We have not been summoned like this in millennia.”
A ripple of green light and spring warmth followed as Eladriel, Conduit of Opia, appeared beside them. She looked toward Iyonmana, her expression composed yet curious.
“Then it must be serious,” she said gently. “Sister… speak. What troubles the Sun?”
Syrin rose last—from the still pool below, his presence like a memory long drowned. He said nothing. But his eyes never left Iyonmana.
The Sun-Mother took a slow breath. Her voice trembled—not from weakness, but from the sheer weight of what she had seen.
“He stirs,” she said. “Ulrich. A shadow brushes the roots. A will beyond death. Something tries to wake him.”
The glow of the roots pulsed faintly, as if even the trees held their breath.
Syrin finally stirred—his voice low and cold, like waves under ice.
“It is not possible. We would feel it. If something were rising… we would know.”
Iyonmana turned to him, her eyes blazing.
“And yet I do. I saw it. I felt it in the core of Efe’s heart. A tremor not of the land, but of fate.”
Zephyros moved then—so softly that the wind didn’t even whisper. His voice flowed through the space, smooth as mountain air before a storm.
“We have not felt it either, Iyonmana.”
The others murmured in agreement.
But the Sun-Mother did not falter. She stepped forward, her voice rising with ancient fire.
“A vision came to me. Not born of dream, but delivered through flame. I saw roots splinter. I saw the seal tremble. I saw black fire at the foot of the Trees.”
A silence fell again. Heavy. Dismissive.
Then Eladriel, ever the calm between opposing tides, tilted her head and turned to the one cloaked in smoke and shadow.
“Veyrix. You walk the line between what breathes and what does not. Has anything stirred beneath?”
The Conduit of Death rolled his eyes as if the question personally offended him.
“Please, darling. If Ulrich had even twitched in his sleep, the chain binding him would have sung to me.”
He clicked his tongue and flourished a hand dramatically.
“And believe me, I would have come running. In the most tasteful black ensemble, of course.”
“But no,” he continued, “he slumbers still. Deep. Dreadful. And delightfully defeated.”
He arched a brow at Iyonmana, voice softening slightly but still laced with sass.
“Your fire burns brighter than most. But even fire casts shadows where none exist.”
The glow of Efe's crown flickered, matching the trembling in Iyonmana’s breath.
She looked at them—not just fellow Conduits, but kindred spirits who had stood beside her for thousands of years.
“I do not ask lightly,” she said, voice cracking. “You know me. I do not summon storms for passing clouds.”
She looked each of them in the eye—Eladriel’s calm, Zephyros’ stillness, Syrin’s silence... and Veyrix’s perfectly arched brow.
“But I am asking now. Trust me. If I am wrong, I will bear the shame. But if I am right—if we do nothing—then everything we built will fall.”
There was a beat of stillness.
And then—
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Veyrix cooed, tilting his head with theatrical pity.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2bYf1PGxD9
“I’m sure that vision gave you quite the fright. And don’t get me wrong—love the passion, very ‘Sun-Queen on fire.’”
He waved a gloved hand dismissively, smoke curling at his fingertips.
“But I will not send my dear Sigrun charging after shadows in the dark just because you had a bad dream.”
Zephyros said nothing. He simply folded his hands in his lap, eyes closed as if listening to winds only he could hear.
Syrin, ever solemn, finally spoke.
“It would be unwise to act without proof. We are not scouts. We are Conduits. Guardians. We do not leave the Trees unless the world calls us in certainty.”
A heavy silence.
Then a voice as smooth as running water broke it.
Eladriel stepped forward, hand resting lightly on her chest.
“Very well.”
She met Iyonmana’s eyes—gentle, but resolute.
“I will send my apprentice—Illyth of Endell. Let him join yours. They will search, observe. If they find even a single thread out of place, they will return and we will act.”
Iyonmana exhaled slowly. Not in victory, but in hope.
And far beneath their gathering place, in the depths of the world…
A black wick stirred.
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