The roots of Sylvaranthe trembled beneath Jareth's boots as the chamber's magic receded like a tide. The voices of the Elven Kings and Queens—ghostly and regal—whispered through the air one last time before dissolving into silence. In his hands, the seed pulsed gently, warm and ancient, alive with divine intent.
He emerged from the sacred chamber into shafts of sunlight piercing the canopy of the Glass Tree above. At the base of the hill, waiting in solemn anticipation, stood King Altheryon, silver antlers crowning his brow, and Commander Vaelis, his stance poised as ever—unmoving, unreadable, yet always ready.
Jareth smiled—a rare, unguarded expression etched with the weight of countless battles and the fragile hope of what might come next.
"I'm bringing the Holy Tree back," he said, his voice quiet but unshakable.
Then he launched into the sky.
Wings of radiant light unfurled from his back—half-dragon, half-divine—and caught the wind. Birds scattered in brilliant bursts of color. Below, the city fell into stillness, every eye lifted as he ascended like a comet of destiny blazing toward the heavens.
He flew toward the dead lands.
To the great crater where he had once clashed with the corrupted Yggdrasil—a grotesque tangle of sorrow and decay. The battlefield remained scarred, the earth blackened and brittle, the wind sharp with echoes of old pain.
He descended slowly, reverently. Kneeling, he placed the glowing seed into the earth's wounded heart.
Silence.
Then—light.
A warmth deeper than fire, more sacred than sunlight, spilled forth in luminous waves. Ashen soil blushed green. Trees long turned to cinders erupted in golden bloom. The land, so long silent, sighed in relief.
And then the veil of reality rippled.
Astoria descended.
The Goddess of Light and Time appeared, no longer fractured or fading—but whole. Her radiance was not blinding, but sublime. Her arrival was not thunderous, but inevitable.
Behind her walked six towering figures, wreathed in celestial light.
The Divine Envoys of the First Age had returned.
Truth, Mercy, Courage, Balance, Will, and Dawn—each bore their eternal insignia, etched in living light upon robes spun from starlight and runes. Their presence calmed the wind. Time itself seemed to pause in reverence.
Astoria's eyes met Jareth's. They shone with pride, tempered by wisdom, and softened with the serenity only gods possess.
"My strength has grown greatly, thanks to the faith of those who believe with all their hearts," she said, her voice filled with power. "As faith rekindles, so too do I. And with me return those who once upheld harmony."
She extended her hands, and with a graceful motion, the very threads of time unraveled. A river of silver and gold coiled around the seed, singing softly in a language older than stars.
The ground shuddered.
The seed cracked.
Silver roots surged downward, drinking deep from the mana-laced soil. In an instant, a trunk of luminous silverwood burst skyward, spiraling toward the clouds. Branches spread wide like wings of light. Leaves bloomed—each a crystal feather glowing with ambient mana. From its heart grew divine fruit—pearlescent orbs pulsing with celestial power.
In Sylvaranthe, every elf fell to their knees. The ancestral bond to the Holy Tree reignited like fire through dry brush. The wind shimmered. Mana bloomed in the air—visible threads of life weaving through the world once more.
Mothers clutched children as forgotten magic awakened in their veins. Soldiers rose from beds long thought to be deathbeds. The blind opened their eyes. The lame walked. The land breathed again.
And the Tree spoke.
Not with words—but with presence, with knowing.
"Hope has returned. The Balance begins anew. Sylvaranthe shall rise."
Jareth stood. In his hands, the divine fruits radiated warmth—life incarnate, humming with healing beyond comprehension. His heart beat with only one thought.
Lyra. Nerina.
Astoria stepped beside him, her voice softer now, almost a whisper carried by eternity.
"These are the Fruits of Lifeglow," she said. "Born only from Yggdrasil reborn. Each holds the breath of divinity—capable of mending flesh, purifying soul, restoring even the brink of death. But remember…"
She glanced toward the horizon.
"They are not meant to defy death—only to preserve life before its final thread is cut."
Jareth nodded, bowed low, and took to the sky once more—this time faster, brighter, a streak of incandescent gold cutting through the clouds.
The journey to Elaria—once grueling—lasted mere heartbeats.
He descended upon the battered city, whose spires still shimmered with protective enchantments. His arrival stirred awe. Silence followed his landing. Whispers rose behind him. Some cried. Some dropped to their knees.
But he did not stop.
He had a purpose.
He burst through the sanctuary's healing wards like a storm of holy wind. The moment the fruit crossed the threshold, mana surged like a tide. The air vibrated. Healers gasped, instinctively stepping aside.
At the ward's center, two broken lights waited.
Nerina—propped against pillows, breath shallow, skin pale but eyes open. Her flame was dimmed but not extinguished.
Lyra—unconscious, wrapped in layers of spellcloth. Her body was ravaged by scars that would not close. Her mana flickered like a dying candle.
"Nerina," Jareth said, kneeling. She reached for him weakly.
"You… really brought the Holy tree back?" she breathed.
"Yes," he said. "And this—"
He held out the fruit. Even its glow caused the room's mana to swirl, wild and reverent.
He snapped it in two.
He gave one half to Nerina's trembling hand.
The other, he pressed gently to Lyra's lips.
She swallowed.
Golden vines of energy laced over Nerina's skin, sealing wounds, strengthening bones, restoring what was broken. She gasped—then breathed deep for the first time in weeks.
Lyra stirred.
Her body arched slightly, then relaxed. Color flushed into her cheeks. Her breaths deepened. Her soul, barely tethered moments ago, surged toward wholeness.
Jareth let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He brushed a hand across Lyra's brow.
"They're safe now," he whispered—not to anyone else, but to the broken man he had been.
He turned to Nerina, who now sat fully upright, the fire in her returning.
"I'm splitting the forces," he said. "You'll lead the defense of Sylvaranthe. Your strength, your will—we'll need you to protect the Holy Tree."
Nerina blinked, processing the magnitude of what had just happened. "And Lyra?"
"She stays. With the defense of Elaria. Her fight isn't finished yet."
A silence passed. Heavy. Meaningful.
Then Nerina gave him a tired, knowing smile. "You're thinking like a king."
Jareth shook his head, rising.
"No," he said softly. "Just like someone who refuses to lose another soul."