The light of the void dimmed.
Not in loss, but in reverence.
Argolaith stood in stillness, the echoes of ten thousand lives no longer pressing against him. They were gone—but not forgotten. Each one now a thread woven into the shape of his soul.
Before him, the Heartroot stirred.
Its bark shimmered with light older than stars.
Its roots curled through the infinite.
Its pulse was steady—measured in the rhythm of galaxies.
The voice came again.
Warm.
Proud.
"You have passed the final trial, Argolaith."
"And now, it is time."
A branch, slow and silent, lowered from the canopy.
From it hung a single droplet.
It pulsed—not like blood, but like the core of a star.
Silver and violet, gold and shadow.
It shimmered with everything.
Argolaith stepped forward, reaching out—
But the tree spoke again.
"Before you take it… you must understand."
He paused, hand just short of the droplet.
The Heartroot's voice deepened.
"I am not like the other five."
