The Hollowgrove.
Even the name made Cael's skin prickle.
The vine-woman said it with reverence, but there was a weight behind it—like a toll yet to be paid.
He turned toward the dark, root-choked path. The other tunnel, the one leading toward the surface and away from the Thornwood's heart, remained open behind him.
But it felt distant now. Small.
The woman said nothing as he passed her. She only watched with something between sorrow and expectation.
The tunnel closed behind him.
And the Hollowgrove opened.
It was no mere forest.
The roots above formed a vast cathedral of living wood, their limbs curling like ribcages around a skyless vault. The air shimmered with green-gold light, filtered through translucent leaves that grew without sun.
Massive trunks—larger than any tree Cael had ever seen—stood like sentinels, their bark carved with sigils so old they bled sap that glowed.
The forest was... listening.
Every step Cael took echoed not in sound, but feeling. Each footfall sent a ripple through the roots beneath him, as if the earth marked his presence.
Then he heard it.
Not with his ears—but in the way the Scabbard once whispered.
A voice—no, voices—layered over one another like leaves on water.
"He comes…Bound in blade and thorn.Tangled in the oaths of two kings."
A wind blew from nowhere, rustling leaves in a whispering chorus.
Ahead, a clearing opened—circular and vast, ringed by twisted trees that leaned inward like an audience of giants. In the center stood a stone dais, covered in moss and carved with the image of a many-branched tree.
Upon it stood three figures.
Cael slowed.
The Wild Tribunal.
The first figure was hunched, her form wrapped in tattered ivy. Her face was lost beneath a hood of writhing vines, and from her back, thorned wings sprouted like broken branches. Her voice rasped like dry bark.
"He stinks of flame. Yet walks the path of root."
The second was tall, antlered, with a cloak of living animals—mice, birds, insects, all clinging to him as if he were a mountain of life. His eyes glowed green.
"He carries the crown's scent. But it clings to him, not from him."
The third was motionless, draped in shadows of bark and bone. No face, no mouth—just a hollow mask of pale wood, with a single eye-shaped knot that glowed softly.
"He is the wound," it intoned in a voice that echoed in Cael's bones."And wounds must be judged."
Cael stood before them, heart hammering.
He thought to kneel, but something inside—either the Scabbard or the Thorn—refused.
So he stood tall.
"I was told the Tribunal could teach me."
The wind stirred. The trees leaned closer.
"We do not teach," said the antlered one. "We test."
Suddenly, Cael's arms moved on their own.
The vines around his wrist uncoiled and plunged into the mossy stone, dragging him forward. The Scabbard burned against his back. Something ancient surged beneath his skin.
"You have been marked by relic and root," the winged one whispered. "Now we see which speaks louder."
Roots burst from the ground, encircling Cael in a ring of thorns. Bark sealed over the moss, creating a dueling ground.
A figure stepped forward—shaped from leaves, but with Cael's face. A perfect mimic, armed with a thornblade and cloaked in green fire.
His own voice mocked him:
"You seek to be both forest and flame. Let's see if you can withstand yourself."
The trial had begun.
Cael barely dodged the mimic's first strike—a slash that split bark like butter. The thornblade danced, faster than any sword he had faced in the village ring.
He drew nothing—only moved.
The Scabbard vibrated behind him. His hands burned with energy he didn't understand.
Then, he remembered.
The Thornblood wasn't a weapon. It was will.
He raised a hand, and the vines around his forearm surged outward, catching the mimic's blade mid-swing. Cael yanked, spinning and slamming his double into the ring wall.
But the mimic only grinned—his grin—and vanished into leaves.
From above, a vine noose snapped toward Cael's throat. He ducked, rolled, summoned the Thorn again—
But nothing came.
The mimic had split into three.
Each moved like wind, all speaking in his voice.
"Weak.""Split.""Unworthy."
Cael panted, sweating.
He couldn't fight them all. Not as he was.
He closed his eyes.
And reached.
Not with hand—but with roots.
Into the Scabbard's silence.Into the forest's heartbeat.Into the wound between the two.
And in that moment—
He felt them merge.
Vines coiled around his wrists. The Scabbard burst into green fire. And Cael rose—not with anger, but certainty.
He swung his hand.
The mimic shattered—roots consuming all three copies like hungry wolves. The thorns retracted. Silence fell.
Cael stood alone again.
The Tribunal watched.
The wind slowed.
The moss calmed.
The antlered figure nodded.The hooded one leaned forward.The hollow mask glowed brighter.
"He lives," said the whisper-voice."He endures," said the wind.
The shadowed one intoned:
"He is Thornbound."
The dais split, and a stone tablet rose.
Upon it sat a seed.
It pulsed with green light.
"This is your first Root," the Tribunal said in unison. "You may now grow."
Cael stepped forward and took it.
It burned—but sweetly. Like life returning to dead ground.
And just as quickly, the Hollowgrove darkened.
The Tribunal faded.
And a path opened to the east, paved in blackstone and veined with living root.
A whisper followed him:
"Your next step is to claim your place… or lose it."