? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  The wagon, drawn by two slender stags, swayed gently on a path winding through the depths of the primeval forest. Sequoias rose around them like the pillars of a forgotten cathedral, their trunks radiating a damp warmth. The air was thick with the scent of pine needles, resin, and a profound antiquity that breathed from the roots.

  Violetta sat at the front, her silver strands catching the wind. Her violet eyes scanned the forest, which seemed like a living entity—and it, without doubt, watched her in return. The AI-Sphere chimed softly behind her, its blue lights flashing in unison with the hidden rhythms of the trees, a heart both alien and familiar beating beside her.

  Behind her sat Brenn, Irellis, Tillo, and Odd—weary, alert, but surrendered to the mercy of a silence that was nearly sacred in these lands. Four Elven warriors escorted the wagon without a word, their cloaks merging with the emerald sea of the canopy. Distrust still flickered in their eyes, but it no longer pricked as it had in the settlement; it was more like a shadow lingering out of habit.

  The journey had lasted over a week. Each day, the forest transformed: trunks thickened into the columns of giants, branches wove into natural arches, and the ground beneath glowed with a soft, neon-green moss that resembled stardust. The air vibrated with an invisible music—impossible to hear with ears, yet Violetta felt it in her skin, her bones, and her mana.

  A memory suddenly pierced her. That great tree where she had once meditated—the one whose branches seemed like stairs to the stars... Here, in the heart of the Elven lands, the memory flickered to life, as if the forest itself had touched her mind.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  On the eighth day, the air itself seemed to forget how to move.

  At first, it was only a shadow. Then—a contour. And finally, through the misty veils of the clouds, branches reached out... but not of a tree, of something without end. A canopy wider than the horizon surged slowly like a green ocean, and a trunk ascended so high it merged with the heavens, as if bracing the sky upon its shoulders.

  Their world had a heart. And it stood before them.

  The World Tree.

  Its majesty was such that one’s breath caught from a single glance.

  “It... it can’t be...” Tillo whispered, defenseless against his own awe. “It touches the sky.”

  “Did you think the Elves were just boasting?” Brenn grunted, his voice uncharacteristically full of reverence. “You don't have to invent something like this. It speaks for itself.”

  Irellis gazed at the Tree, her eyes suddenly burning with a pride so ancient it seemed not to belong to her generation. “In the legends of our ancestors,” she said softly, “this is the heart of life. It remembers the world’s birth and will sing when the world ends.”

  One of the warriors, a slender Elf with silver hair, shot her a sharp look. “Legends are not for outlanders. Especially those who wear the Imperial mark.” His eyes slid to Odd.

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  Odd did not look away; he merely tightened his lips. “I don't have their blood,” he said quietly. “Only their experience. And experience wounds. Mock me if you wish.”

  The Elf scowled but remained silent.

  Violetta felt the tension thickening, but suddenly the AI-Sphere spoke in her mind.

  [THEY ARE AFRAID,] it whispered. [THEIR DISDAIN IS A SHIELD. BUT THEIR MOVEMENTS INDICATE ASCENDING LEVELS OF RESPECT TOWARD YOU... EVEN IF THEY REFUSE TO ACKNOWLEDGE IT.]

  The wagon rolled slowly toward the colossal roots of the World Tree—deep ridges protruding from the earth like the exposed veins of the world. Beneath this stony weave lay the capital of the Wood Elves—a city grown, not built, as if nature itself had decided to craft a home.

  Structures woven from living branches shivered in the breeze—their walls pulsed softly, breathing alongside the tree that fueled them. Bridges slung between high platforms swayed, dusted with flowers that glowed with a tender light. Brooks hummed along the paths, and waterfalls spilled from high ledges, scattering rainbow dust into the air. Swarms of magical butterflies ignited the atmosphere with myriads of gold and blue glints. A phantom music hung in the air: bodiless harps singing with the leaves.

  Above it all loomed the trunk of the World Tree—infinite, magnificent, its bark covered in silver patterns resembling stellar currents. It seemed as if the constellations themselves were resting upon it.

  Even Brenn, who always kept his focus on danger, could not contain his shock. “So this is it... a true wonder. Our subterranean halls don't even come close.”

  The Elven warrior accompanying them curled his lip. “What could a Dwarf know of beauty?” he spat coldly. “You gouge your homes from stone and sweat and call it art.”

  Brenn whirled around, fingers clenching the haft of his axe. “Stone and sweat?” he roared. “Our halls stand for centuries, and the mountains speak our songs! Call it talentless one more time, and I'll show you what Dwarven pride looks like!”

  The Elf shifted closer, his hand a shadow over his bow. Before the tension could ignite, Violetta raised her hand. Her voice was quiet, but it vibrated with undeniable power.

  “Enough.” Her tail flicked aside, punctuating her movement. “Beauty has many faces. Your city is the song of the forest. The Dwarven halls are the breath of the mountains. One does not diminish the other. We did not come for petty brawls.”

  Brenn muttered but stepped back. The Elf held Violetta’s gaze for too long, and in that look, there was no longer pure disdain—it was something closer to recognition.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  At the central plaza, they were met by Elrion, the Keeper of the Council, clad in robes embroidered with silver and emeralds. He led them to a grand structure growing directly from the root of the World Tree. Inside, it smelled of resin and ancient magic.

  On a throne of interlaced roots sat the Primal Elder—an Elf with hair white as frost and eyes holding the weight of centuries.

  “Welcome, travelers,” he spoke, his voice an echo from a deep forest. “You have stepped into the very heart of our world, and it is no accident.”

  He approached Violetta, his gaze sharpening as if recognizing something long forgotten. “I have seen you, child,” he said quietly. “In the dreams of the forest, in the shadows of ancient prophecies. But your answers wait in the sanctuary. Follow me.”

  Brenn immediately stepped forward, gripping his axe. “She won’t go alone,” he said firmly. “What concerns Violetta concerns us all.”

  Irellis nodded, her daggers gleaming. “We are together.”

  Elrion scowled, hand moving to his sword hilt. “This is sacred ground. Outlanders have no right—”

  “Enough, Elrion,” the Elder interrupted. His word was like stone—quiet but immovable. “They are her family. Their loyalty speaks for itself.”

  The Keeper fell silent and retreated. Violetta felt a warmth in her chest and thanked her friends with a look.

  The Elder led them deeper. The roots of the World Tree closed overhead in a natural arch. The walls, covered in glowing runes, hummed with a low magic, and the air was filled with a song that vibrated in their chests.

  The AI-Sphere behind her flared brighter.

  [VIOLETTA... THIS LOCATION...] its voice trembled. [DETECTING ASCARI TECHNOLOGY SIGNATURES. THERE ARE TRACES OF THE EMPIRE INSIDE THIS TREE.]

  The group stepped into the temple. Soft moss muffled their steps as the magic of the World Tree surged around them like a river of light. Ahead, in the very heart of the sanctuary, the answers waited...