God’s Tree

The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the wooden slats of his room, Argolaith stirred from his sleep. The familiar ache in his body greeted him like an old companion, a reminder of the relentless training that defined his days. The stiffness in his arms and legs, the calluses on his hands—these were not burdens but evidence of the path he had chosen. A path walked alone.

Argolaith had no master to guide him, no comrades to push him forward. His strength came from years of solitary dedication, the hours spent honing his skills in the shadows of the forest. He was alone in his quest, not because he lacked the option of companionship but because he chose to be. In solitude, he found clarity, and in clarity, he found purpose.

Sitting up, he rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers until the stiffness loosened. He rose, splashing cold water from a basin onto his face. The chill jolted him fully awake, and for a moment, he stood in silence, staring out the small window of his room. The forest loomed in the distance, its trees swaying gently in the morning breeze.

"That was a good night's sleep," he muttered, his voice low and rough from disuse. "But what now? More training… or something different?"

His eyes flicked to the corner of the room, where a stack of books rested on a wooden table. The spines bore titles that whispered of distant lands, ancient secrets, and forgotten battles. He had read them all—some more times than he cared to admit—but one, The Chronicles of the First Age, caught his attention.

He had always been drawn to the creatures of old, the beasts and gods that once shaped Morgoth's lands. Their stories felt strangely familiar, as though they mirrored something deep within him—powerful and untethered, existing on the edges of the world.

"I'll study today," he decided aloud, though his tone lacked conviction. The thought of diving into another tale of gods and monsters appealed to him more than a day spent swinging his blade. He dressed quickly, pulling on his worn leather tunic and boots, and strapped his sword to his back out of habit.

The blade had been his sole companion since he was a boy. Its weight was comforting, a constant reminder of his survival. Even now, heading into the safety of the town, he wouldn't leave it behind.

The library stood at the town's center, a tall, stone building that felt out of place amid the wooden homes surrounding it. Argolaith rarely ventured into the village. The chatter of its people unsettled him; the weight of their stares grated against his solitude. Yet the library was different. Its silence welcomed him, a sanctuary of knowledge hidden behind rows of ancient books.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled of old parchment and polished wood. Argolaith moved through the aisles with practiced ease, his fingers brushing the spines of the books. Most were familiar, their covers worn from his frequent visits. But today, something caught his eye.

On a lower shelf, tucked behind a much larger tome, was a small, dusty book. Its dark cover was cracked with age, its title nearly obscured by the grime of neglect. Argolaith crouched, pulling it free.

"What's this?" he murmured, running his thumb over the faded lettering. "The Legends of Morgoth. Never seen this one before."

The book felt oddly heavy in his hands, its worn edges suggesting it hadn't been touched in years. He carried it to a quiet corner near the window, where the morning light filtered in just enough to illuminate the pages. Carefully, he opened it, and the faint scent of age and ink wafted up to greet him.

The words on the first page were faded but legible, their story unraveling like a tapestry woven from forgotten history.

In the beginning, there was a creature, and its name was Venencia…

Argolaith read on, his brow furrowing as the tale unfolded. Venencia, the gods' first creation, a beast so massive and violent it consumed entire lakes and destroyed everything in its path. The gods, desperate to temper its rage, created companions for it, only for Venencia to destroy them as well.

The dragons followed, born of fire and stone, created to bring balance to the chaos. Yet even they struggled against Venencia's might. The battles that followed spanned eons, shaking the very foundations of the world. Argolaith could almost hear the roar of dragons and the clash of mountains as he turned the pages.

Finally, Venencia fell, its monstrous body brought low by the dragons' combined strength. But the cost was immense—of the 10,000 dragons that once roamed the skies, only 100 remained. They retreated into the hidden places of the world, slumbering in silence, their existence slipping into legend.

Argolaith leaned closer to the book, his heart pounding. The vivid descriptions, the haunting details—it all felt too real to be mere myth. The story shifted to the elves, their creation by the gods, and the birth of Black Magic.

One elf, dissatisfied with the cycle of life and death, pursued immortality…

The tale of the first lich, Zolgrich, sent a chill down Argolaith's spine. A being caught between life and death, consumed by a hunger for knowledge, disappearing into the frozen wastes with a sleeping dragon. The image lingered in his mind long after he closed the book.

He returned it to the shelf and approached the librarian, an elderly man with kind eyes. "Excuse me," Argolaith said, his voice quieter than usual. "Do you know anything about that book? The Legends of Morgoth?"

The librarian looked up, adjusting his spectacles. "That one? It's been here as long as I can remember. Nobody's borrowed it in years."

"Strange," Argolaith muttered, frowning. "Thank you."

The librarian smiled. "By the way, I don't believe we've met. I'm Athos."

"Argolaith," he replied, shaking the man's hand briefly. "Thanks again."

As he left the library, the book's words echoed in his mind. The streets were bustling, but he moved through them unnoticed, his thoughts already turning to the solitude of the forest.

"What if it's all true?" he whispered to himself. The question lingered, heavy with possibility. But he pushed it aside as he reached the edge of the woods.

The forest greeted him like an old friend, its canopy swaying in the afternoon breeze. He drew his sword, its edge gleaming in the dappled sunlight.

"Legends or not," he murmured, gripping the hilt tightly, "I'll carve my own story."

With a steady breath, he stepped into the trees, his blade cutting through the air with precision. The world's myths might have shaped its past, but Argolaith's solitude and determination would shape its future.