Chapter 64 #2
Symond’s mouth fell open as he stared upward, his neck craning to take in the impossible sight.
The trunk alone had to be wider than the entire Institute compound, rising like a mountain from the center of the lake.
Its bark wasn’t the uniform brown he’d expected, but a tapestry of colors—deep burgundies, rich ambers, and veins of something that caught the light like polished copper.
This can’t be Mahōamorah, he thought, yet it matched everything their Empire history books had described. A tree the size of cities, a canopy framing the sky like a living cathedral ceiling. The descriptions hadn’t done it justice. Not even close.
Branches thicker than village roads extended outward, creating an architectural marvel that seemed to defy gravity. The canopy spread so wide it cast half the lake in dappled shadow, sunlight filtering through leaves larger than sail canvas.
Symond squinted, searching for the golden blisters mentioned in every text about the sacred tree. The sap repositories that the Empire supposedly harvested with such care. But from this distance, he couldn’t spot anything resembling the illustrations he’d studied.
What he did see made his heart hammer against his ribs. A city wrapped around the trunk, built directly into the living wood. Not clinging to it like a parasite, but integrated with it, as if tree and settlement had grown together by mutual agreement.
Unlike Aszona with its belching smokestacks and hissing alchemical pipes, this city didn’t impose itself on its surroundings.
There were no harsh angles, no rigid barriers between civilization and wilderness.
Structures flowed organically from one level to the next, connected by bridges that looked like extensions of the branches themselves.
His hands itched for paper and ink to capture what he was seeing.
This was nothing like the savage camps their teachers had described, where Al’terans supposedly huddled in primitive huts and gnawed on raw meat.
This was... architecture. Art. Engineering that rivaled or perhaps surpassed anything in the Empire.
“Welcome to Mythravar,” Elora said.
Symond wrote on his slate: Mahōamorah? and tapped it to get her attention.
She shook her head. “This is Sol’morah, another daughter. The elders wait for us inside.”
The journey through Sol’morah’s interior had been a blur of sensations Symond could barely process—spiraling passages carved directly into heartwood, walls that pulsed with faint amber light, and the omnipresent scent of something sweet and earthy that made his head spin.
He’d given up trying to memorize the route after the third switchback.
If they needed to escape, they’d be utterly lost.
Now, he stood among two dozen Empire-born refugees in a vast chamber that seemed to be the very heart of the tree.
Branches, or maybe roots, crossed the space, allowing perches for nightgliders to watch the show from above.
In the center was a pool of crystal-clear water that bubbled from steam vents nearby. The four elders stood at the center.
Elora’s voice rose and fell as she pleaded their case, her hands gesturing with increasing desperation. Beside her, Kaela translated.
“They may be Empire-born, but they hold no allegiance to the Empire,” Elora said, her words echoing in the chamber. “They seek peace, sanctuary—not war, not harm.”
Symond shifted his weight, suddenly aware of how pathetic they must appear to these beings. A collection of misfits and cast-offs, thin from their journey, bearing the unmistakable stamp of the very civilization that had tried to destroy this place.
The nightglider elder laughed first—a harsh, grating sound that set Symond’s teeth on edge.
The emberhorn followed with a dismissive huff, his massive chest expanding as smoke curled from his nostrils.
The sea dragon—Symond couldn’t recall the proper name—raised its winged fins in a gesture that needed no translation: back away, or face consequences.
Only the gladehowler elder hesitated, her large eyes studying them with something that might have been pity. But even she shook her head. “This would cause an imbalance,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “The risk is too great.”
Symond’s chest tightened at the finality in their voices. So this was it—they’d sailed all this way just to be turned away. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
“I understand.” Elora’s shoulders slumped, the confidence draining from her posture. “We will leave your lands by morning.”
The look on her face made something twist in Symond’s chest. He’d spent years resenting her privileges at The Institute, the special treatment she’d received while he and others suffered.
But at this moment, seeing her crushed under the weight of responsibility for all of them, he felt an unexpected pang of sympathy.
Before anyone could move, a high, clear note pierced the silence. Then another joined it, harmonizing perfectly. A third note wove between them, creating a melody that seemed to vibrate through the very wood beneath their feet.
A dozen birds with sleek black feathers tipped with gold circled the high ceiling, their wings catching the amber light as they swooped and dove in perfect synchrony. Each small throat produced a note that blended into an ethereal chorus.
“Truthkeepers,” Elora breathed, her golden eyes dilated, her lips parted in silent reverence.
The birds continued their haunting song, spiraling lower until they encircled the gathered refugees.
One flew directly to Symond, hovering before his face.
Its white beady eyes studied him with an intelligence that sent a chill down his spine.
The creature cocked its head as if listening to something only it could hear.
The elders exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from dismissal to confusion. Even the emberhorn’s smoke had stilled, hanging around his massive head like a frozen cloud.
The truthkeepers completed their circuit, then flew in formation toward one of the openings leading out of the chamber. The last bird hovered there, trilling an urgent note that needed no translation: Follow.
Elora didn’t hesitate. She strode after the birds, her back straight once more, purpose returned to her steps. The others fell in behind her—first Rell and Violette, then the rest of the apprentices and wards. Symond found himself moving too, drawn forward as if pulled by an invisible thread.
The passage beyond the opening spiraled upward, carved directly into the living wood of Sol’morah. The truthkeepers’ song echoed in the narrow space, guiding them ever higher. Symond’s legs burned with the effort, sweat soaking through his shirt, but he kept climbing.
Finally, the stairs opened onto a vast platform where the massive trunk of Sol’morah split into countless branches that stretched toward the sky like wooden fingers.
Symond stepped onto the platform, his boots sinking slightly into moss-covered wood.
The air here tasted different—cleaner, charged with something that made the hair on his arms stand on end.
He froze, eyes widening as he took in the sight before him. Thousands of truthkeepers perched in the branches surrounding the platform, their golden-tipped feathers catching the dying sunlight. They watched in eerie silence, heads tilted in perfect synchrony as if sharing a single mind.
The rest of the refugees filed onto the platform behind him, their exhausted murmurs falling silent as they too noticed the audience surrounding them. Rowan pressed close to Symond’s side, his thin frame trembling slightly.
Heavy footfalls announced the arrival of the elders, their massive forms emerging from the stairwell one by one.
The emberhorn elder snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils as he surveyed the platform with obvious confusion.
The nightglider elder’s tail lashed back and forth, her golden eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“What is happening?” the gladehowler elder asked. “Why have the truthkeepers led us here?”
The platform lurched beneath Symond’s boots.
He steadied himself, blinking, wondering if exhaustion had finally caught up with him, but then he saw it—vines as thick as his wrist slithering across the wooden surface, converging at the center of the platform.
They twisted together, forming a nest-like depression where a single truthkeeper hopped, its black and gold feathers puffed out importantly.
The bird turned its head, examining each person in turn. When its gaze fell on Symond, he felt a strange pressure behind his eyes, as if something was rifling through his thoughts. He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to look away.
Kaela stepped forward, her posture straight and dignified. “The truthkeepers have summoned us,” she said, her voice carrying across the platform. “This has never happened before.”
The emberhorn elder stamped his massive foot, sending vibrations through the platform. “This is not the way of things,” he growled.
Kaela turned to face him, unintimidated by his massive form. “The truthkeepers preserve the balance,” she countered. “If they intervene, then perhaps our judgment does not align with the mother’s will.”
The emberhorn’s hot breath billowed over the crowd as he snorted his displeasure, but Kaela merely stepped closer to the center of the platform.
“The truthkeepers are the only beings who can truly know what lies in another’s heart,” she explained, her voice carrying a reverence that made Symond shift uncomfortably. “They detect falsehoods, yes, but more importantly, they sense true intent—what motivates us beyond the words we speak.”
Symond watched skeptically as the vines continued to writhe across the wooden surface. All this mystical nonsense about trees and birds reading minds—it was exactly the sort of superstition The Institute had taught them to dismiss. Yet the evidence was literally moving beneath his feet.