CHAPTER 112: CHAPTER 111 - ROOTS OF THE DEEP

The descent swallowed sound.

Stone walls closed around him as he eased down into the earth, rough and slick beneath his palms, the air growing colder with each meter. Above him, the jagged crack of sky shrank to a sliver, then to a single, unwavering line. Then it disappeared entirely.

Darkness came not with violence, but with ceremony.

The kind of darkness that had never known light. Not absence, but origin. Primeval. Complete.

Caliste didn’t stop.

Each foothold was a negotiation with stone, a test of faith in the unseen. His fingers found cracks where there should have been none, as if the earth had prepared this path long ago and only now remembered it.

The relic nestled against his chest like a second heart.

It pulsed slower now, heavier. Not warning. Guiding.

When he reached the cavern floor, he paused.

Not to rest. To listen.

The silence here wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of pressure, of waiting. Of something ancient breathing without breath.

His first steps echoed strangely, the sound bouncing back in a curve—distorted, folded, like walking through a place that bent around him.

The walls of the cavern glistened with mineral veins—some gold, some red, others flickering faintly with an inner glow, as if they remembered starlight.

And there, just ahead, a structure emerged from the gloom.

Not built.

Grown.

A massive root system, blackened and gnarled, spread out like a crown driven deep into the stone. At its center rose a trunk—no wider than a man, but impossibly tall, its bark layered in a thousand colors of decay.

The First Tree.

Or what remained of it.

The seed in Caliste’s cloak warmed.

He approached.

Closer.

And the moment his foot touched the root’s edge—

The ground trembled.

Not from rage.

From recognition.

Something beneath the tree stirred.

Not waking.

Rising.

He placed his hand to the bark.

It shuddered beneath his touch.

And the voice from the Flame echoed once more:

Plant it.

Before it remembers why it was forgotten.

***

The bark beneath his palm felt like no wood he had ever touched.

It was not dead, though it did not live by any natural rhythm. Its fibers held not sap, but memory—thick and slow and old. His breath caught as images surged through his mind again. Not like before—no brief flashes or symbolic dreams. This time, it was as if the tree itself reached into him.

A thousand voices murmured in a language he didn’t know but somehow understood. Not words. Feelings. Echoes of old oaths. Sorrow shaped into song. Fear twisted into roots.

He pressed harder.

The relic pulsed.

And the ground opened beneath him.

Not violently. Not to consume.

It parted.

As though the earth itself recognized that he was carrying something meant for this place. That he was not a thief—but a returner.

He stepped into the hollow revealed below the roots.

A chamber of stone and rot and lightless breath.

The air smelled of petrichor and ancient ash.

Here, the root system webbed out in all directions, veins of it spiraling like arteries around a stone altar half-buried in moss and soot. Glyphs surrounded it—shapes he hadn’t seen even in the sanctum archives. Raw. Primal. First-form.

This was older than kingdoms.

Older than Flame.

He knelt at the altar.

Unclasped the relic from beneath his cloak.

And for a moment, he hesitated.

Because something inside him knew:

Once it was planted, there would be no turning back.

Not for him.

Not for the world.

He held the relic in both hands, palms upward.

And whispered—not a prayer, but a promise.

Then he pressed it into the soil.

The roots shivered.

The altar lit from within.

And across the deepstone walls, the old glyphs began to glow—

Not red.

Not gold.

Green.

The color of life not yet born.

Of memory turning forward.

The tree drank the seed.

And in that moment,

Caliste heard the world exhale.

***

At first, there was only silence.

Then, the sound returned—slow, drawn, like breath entering lungs long thought collapsed.

Caliste remained kneeling beside the altar, both hands still pressed to the soil where the seed had vanished. The relic was gone. Not absorbed. Not devoured. Accepted.

He could feel it.

Somewhere below the stone and the web of roots, something had opened—not a chamber, not a gate, but a memory buried too deep for men to unearth.

The glyphs pulsed slowly around him, a rhythm echoing in his bones.

He tried to stand.

But the earth did not let him.

The roots coiled gently around his ankles—not with malice, but with insistence. They anchored him, like a tether to the new heartbeat that had just begun beneath the earth.

Then it began.

The glow deep within the altar’s basin twisted upward, curling like steam, then taking form. A shape. A spine of radiant lines. Not a tree—not yet—but a silhouette. Humanoid. Hollow. Made of light.

It did not move.

It only faced him.

Caliste stared at it, breath caught halfway between awe and confusion.

"What are you?" he asked aloud, though he suspected the answer had no words.

The figure did not speak.

But it stepped forward.

And walked into him.

There was no collision. No resistance. It folded into him like a second shadow, sinking into his skin, disappearing beneath flesh. And in that moment—

—he remembered everything.

The first cities.The forging of belief.The woman with the molten eyes kneeling before the roots.The first betrayal.The rewriting of history in golden ink and ash.

And more than that—

He felt the seed inside him now.

Still buried. Still growing.

But not entirely separate.

The tree had taken it.

And gifted back a piece of itself.

He was no longer merely the one who planted it.

He had become its keeper.

He did not know how long he knelt there.

Time bent strangely in the root chamber. There was no sun. No moon. Only the steady pulse of glyphlight and the whispering lull of ancient roots curling into new directions.

When the roots finally released him, he stood.

His knees ached. His spine protested.

But his breath came easier. His limbs felt lighter—not stronger, not faster, but more awake. As though every motion would now be a conversation between his will and the living world around him.

He looked at his hands.

Nothing had changed.

Not visibly.

But when he closed his eyes, he could feel the seed—not just beneath the altar, but far below, stretching downward into layers of stone and heat and memory.

It was already growing.

And with it, something in the world was waking.

His ascent from the cavern was slower.

Not because he was tired.

But because the path had changed.

The same roots that had wrapped around him now served as steps, as ladders, as subtle invitations back toward the surface. They had reshaped the tunnel. Not to imprison—but to mark his passage. The way he had come down was not the way he returned.

When he emerged again into the cool open air, the sky was overcast.

A mist clung low to the ground, curling through the trees like fingers searching for warmth. The forest around the crevasse was no longer silent. The wind had returned—but it was no longer hollow. It carried a scent.

Not of ash.

But of growth.

New green.

A beginning.

He stood still, letting the chill press against his skin.

And then he heard the voice.

Not from the trees.

From behind.

"You felt it too, didn’t you?"

Caliste turned slowly.

A man stood there.

Cloaked in dark wool, hood up, eyes obscured—but not hidden. He held no weapon in hand. He didn’t need to.

The pressure in the air around him was enough.

Not magical.

But practiced.

Disciplined.

Trained.

Caliste narrowed his eyes. "You followed me."

The man nodded. "Only the last few days. I wasn’t the first."

Caliste’s hand drifted toward his hip.

But the man raised a palm. "I’m not here to stop you. Or to claim it. Only to confirm that you really did it."

He stepped forward.

And Caliste saw the mark on his wrist—

A ring of seven lines.

Each shaped like an eye.

A Witness.

But not of the hollow.

Of something older.

And thus began the second half of the task.

Now that the seed had been planted...

***

The stranger stepped forward, slow but steady, like a man accustomed to walking between thresholds.

Caliste didn’t move. He studied him carefully—the gait, the tone, the distance he kept. Every motion felt rehearsed, but not insincere. This was a man trained to enter places like this without disturbing the dust.

"Who are you?" Caliste asked, his hand still hovering near the hilt of his blade.

The man stopped just outside striking distance and lifted his hands, palms open.

"A friend. Of the memory, not the myth."

Caliste’s eyes narrowed. "That’s not an answer."

The stranger gave a faint smile. "And you already know that if I meant harm, we wouldn’t be talking."

That much, Caliste couldn’t deny.

"Start explaining."

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