God's Tree-Chapter 180: The Ones Who Planted the Stars

The Forerunner tilted its head at him slowly, its expression unreadable.

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"I am saying we left when this world no longer had room for what we were."

Argolaith narrowed his eyes. "Then… where did you originally come from?"

The Forerunner turned its eyes back to him. The light surrounding its body pulsed faintly—one beat of regret, or memory.

"We were born in one of the greater realms."

Even Malakar stirred at that.

"You were of the divine," he said.

The Forerunner gave a small, solemn nod. "Once. But we were cast out."

"Why?" Argolaith asked.

"Because we believed change should not be chained."

Kaelred muttered, "Figures. So the gods kicked you out for thinking differently?"

"They feared that which did not kneel."

Malakar stepped forward now, his voice quieter than usual, but every syllable sharp as cut obsidian.

"Then tell me this. If you truly seeded the Five… what were their original names?"

The Forerunner raised a single hand.

Light bloomed in the air between them—five ancient symbols written in an ever-shifting script no mortal had seen. But Argolaith could somehow feel the meaning in each one. Names that were older than rivers, older than time.

Elaris.

Vaetra.

Torrial.

Yuneith.

Zaehl.

Malakar froze.

"So it's true," he whispered.

Kaelred looked between them. "Wait—what is?"

"No race," Malakar said slowly, "no one but the gods has ever known all five names. Not even the ancient archives of the Lich domains hold more than one."

Kaelred turned to the Forerunner, eyes narrowing. "So you really are the ones who planted the trees."

The being nodded once.

"We did not just plant them."

"We shaped them."

Kaelred took a half step forward, his hand resting on one dagger. Not in threat—just out of habit.

"You said something before. That Argolaith's fourth tree isn't where it's meant to be. What does that mean? How would you know?"

The Forerunner looked to Argolaith now, and its voice shifted—softer, though no less commanding.

"Because each tree we seeded was fixed. Rooted beyond time. Meant for one soul only."

It lifted a hand.

A projection of five glowing stars appeared in the air, orbiting a central point.

One dimmed.

"Yuneith—the tree you now seek—was moved."

Argolaith's heart skipped.

"Moved?"

"Yes. Removed from its sanctum and scattered. Hidden by hands not of your making."

"By who?"

"That," the Forerunner said quietly, "is what we do not yet know."

Argolaith took another step forward, his voice steady.

"Why does no one share a tree? Why does everyone have a different one? Even Kaelred and I—we've walked the same path, yet the trees speak to us differently."

The Forerunner watched him with unreadable eyes.

"Because no two souls seek the same truth."

It gestured toward the stars above.

"Everyone walks their own pattern. The lifeblood of the trees responds to intent, to potential, and to purpose. No two purposes are the same."

Argolaith hesitated. "But my fourth tree—Yuneith—is one of the sacred ones. The others I've found weren't."

"Because you are not like the others."

The wind shifted.

"Some are bound to mortal roots. Others are bound to something older."

Kaelred folded his arms. "So it's all just random? Everyone gets some unique set of trees and calls it destiny?"

"Not random," the Forerunner said. "Chosen. Not by us. Not even by the gods. But by the world itself."

It turned again to Argolaith.

"Your path is your own. But the world remembers you."

Argolaith met its gaze. "Why?"

The Forerunner said nothing.

But its eyes burned softly—like it knew the answer.

And it wasn't ready to say it.

The air was still.

The Forerunner stood unmoving, its form gently pulsing with threads of silver light. Around them, the cratered ground whispered with faint vibrations, remnants of the vessel's descent still humming beneath their boots. Though the wind had returned, it didn't dare disturb the silence between Argolaith's question—and what came next.

He stepped forward. "If the fourth tree, Yuneith, was moved… then how do I find it?"

The Forerunner tilted its head slightly, eyes narrowing with a soft glow.

"By chasing what remains."

From within its robes, it drew forth a small object—a piece of root, perfectly preserved, no longer than a finger. It shimmered like moonlight seen through deep water, its veins glowing with soft silver threads. The bark spiraled in patterns that echoed the shape of the rune on Argolaith's forearm.

Yuneith.

"What is it?" Kaelred asked.

Malakar's voice was reverent. "A fragment of its sanctum."

The Forerunner nodded once. "This root once anchored Yuneith to the world. It was not removed with the rest of the tree when it was taken. It remained hidden—until now."

The Forerunner stepped closer to Argolaith.

The moment the root fragment drew near, the rune on Argolaith's arm ignited, pulsing with deep silver light that coursed through his veins. Not painful. Not foreign.

But deeply, unmistakably familiar.

The root glowed in response.

"It recognizes you," the Forerunner said. "As it should."

Argolaith took the fragment with both hands, feeling a low vibration echo through his bones.

As he did, his vision blurred.

He wasn't transported.

Not truly.

But something within the root opened a window:

—A snow-covered temple, hidden beneath a veil of illusions.

—A grove frozen in time, where stars hung low like fruit.

—A woman's voice, quiet and firm: "Do not let them tear the world apart again."

He gasped as the vision ended, nearly stumbling.

Kaelred caught his arm. "You alright?"

Argolaith nodded. "It showed me… where it used to be. And where it might be now."

Malakar stepped forward, gazing at the fragment. "It's not a beacon. But it's enough."

The Forerunner looked westward, toward the horizon.

"Yuneith's energy will respond to the root. As you move closer to the tree's new resting place, this fragment will awaken further. It will show you glimpses. Warnings. Possibly even guardians."

Kaelred sighed. "Of course there are guardians."

"It is sacred," the Forerunner replied, unbothered. "And sacred things are never left undefended."

Argolaith turned the fragment in his hands, the rune still glowing beneath his skin.

He didn't need directions.

He could feel it now.

A faint thread pulling him—southwest still, but sharper now. More defined.

The fourth tree was still distant. But it was no longer hidden.

The root would lead him.

Kaelred leaned in, peering at the fragment. "We're going after a tree that doesn't want to be found, through lands we don't know, with a clue the size of a twig. I just want that noted."

"You're still coming, though," Argolaith said.

Kaelred snorted. "Obviously."

Thae'Zirak, who had remained perched atop a stone since the crater's edge, finally spoke. "If we reach Yuneith… and it accepts you… the world will feel it."

Malakar looked to the Forerunner. "Do others seek the sacred trees?"

The Forerunner's voice dropped lower.

"Not yet. But they will."

The crater felt colder when they turned away.

The Forerunner remained behind, watching silently. It made no move to follow. Its presence did not lessen, but it grew distant—as if it had stepped partially into another realm, its body thinning like mist in the wind.

Before it vanished entirely, it spoke one last time.

"When you reach Yuneith, do not enter its roots alone."

Argolaith turned, startled. "Why?"

But the Forerunner was gone.

Only dust remained.

And the faint glow of the sacred root fragment in Argolaith's hand.