God’s Tree

Argolaith awoke in the heart of the forest, the golden morning light spilling through the canopy above. The air was crisp and alive, carrying the scent of damp leaves and wildflowers, mingling with the soft gurgle of a brook in the distance. For a moment, he simply lay there, feeling the ache in his muscles—a satisfying reminder of the previous day's grueling training. Slowly, he stretched, his joints cracking in protest, and he sat up, brushing loose dirt and leaves from his tattered tunic.

He caught sight of his reflection in a nearby puddle, faint but clear enough to remind him of his disheveled state. His long black hair hung in wild tangles over his shoulders, strands catching the light like threads of midnight silk. His tunic, once serviceable, was now a patchwork of tears and frayed edges, barely clinging to his muscular frame.

A wry smile touched his lips as he ran a hand through his unruly locks, wincing when his fingers caught on a particularly stubborn knot. "Not exactly the image of a hero," he muttered, rising to his feet.

The forest seemed to stir with him as he began the familiar walk back to his cabin on the edge of the trees. His boots crunched softly against the underbrush, and the sunlight filtering through the canopy painted shifting patterns across the path. The world was serene, but Argolaith's mind was anything but. His training consumed him, his days filled with an almost obsessive drive to improve. Yet today, he resolved to take a moment to prepare himself, to shed the remnants of boyhood and fully embrace the warrior he was becoming.

The modest cabin came into view, its sturdy oak timbers weathered but strong, a testament to years of quiet resilience. As he stepped inside, the familiar scent of wood and earth greeted him, grounding him in its simplicity. He approached the small mirror hanging on the wall—a rare luxury gifted to him by a kind merchant years ago.

What he saw in the glass gave him pause. The boy who had once looked back at him, uncertain and unformed, was gone. In his place stood someone new, someone forged through struggle and determination.

His hair, though wild, now reached his lower back, its dark strands gleaming faintly in the light. It seemed almost alive, like a cascade of shadow given form. He pulled it back and examined his face. His jawline had sharpened, his cheekbones more pronounced, giving him an air of quiet intensity.

He leaned closer, drawn to his eyes. They were deep blue, like the endless depths of the ocean, with hints of green that shimmered like sunlight on waves. They seemed to glow faintly, carrying a fire that refused to be extinguished. He could see the unyielding determination there, a promise to himself and the world.

Straightening, Argolaith stepped back and took in his full reflection. At fifteen, he stood tall, his frame broad and muscular from years of relentless training. His pale skin, though smooth, bore the faint lines of scars earned through effort and pain. He looked like a warrior—or perhaps something more.

But his reflection was not a cause for vanity. It was a reminder of the path he had chosen and the price he had paid to walk it. "The work is far from done," he murmured, turning from the mirror.

Determined to present himself with the discipline he had cultivated, Argolaith set about grooming. He retrieved a small blade and began trimming his hair, cutting away uneven ends with steady hands. Each stroke of the blade felt symbolic, as though he were shedding the remnants of his old self. Once his hair was neat, he tied it back with a leather cord, the simplicity of the gesture anchoring him.

He changed into a clean tunic, one of the few he had left, its fabric snug against his hardened frame. Splashing cold water onto his face from a nearby basin, he felt a jolt of clarity. The chill invigorated him, sharpening his senses and washing away the lingering fatigue of the night.

Stepping outside, Argolaith inhaled deeply, the forest air filling his lungs. The woods were alive with the sounds of morning—birds calling to one another, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant hum of the brook. It was a world that felt both vast and intimate, a reminder of what he sought to protect.

He walked toward the clearing that had become his sanctuary, his mind turning toward his purpose. His transformation was more than physical; it was a reflection of his resolve. Every swing of his sword, every rock lifted, every bead of sweat spilled had shaped him into something new.

When he reached the clearing, he wasted no time. Drawing his sword, he stood in the center, his feet planted firmly, his posture unwavering. The blade gleamed in the sunlight, its edge sharp enough to cut through steel—or so he believed. He began his drills, moving with precision and grace.

At first, his strikes were deliberate, each swing measured and exact. The air whistled as the blade cut through it, the sound sharp and satisfying. But as the rhythm of his movements grew faster, his strikes became a blur, the sword an extension of his body. He danced across the clearing, weaving and striking, imagining shadowy foes surrounding him.

The forest seemed to respond to his energy, the wind picking up as though spurred by his movements. Sweat poured down his face, but he pushed on, his blade finding its mark against invisible enemies. His muscles burned, his breath came in ragged gasps, yet he did not falter.

When the sun climbed higher, he turned to strength training. The pile of jagged rocks by the stream awaited him, their surfaces worn smooth by water and time. He gripped the largest stone, hoisting it above his head. His arms trembled under the weight, his shoulders screaming in protest, but he held firm.

Each lift was a battle, each drop a victory. The thud of stone against earth echoed through the clearing, a testament to his unyielding will. When his arms could lift no more, he turned to push-ups, his body pressing against the cool ground as he forced himself to keep going.

By the time the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, Argolaith was drenched in sweat, his body trembling from exhaustion. Yet a fierce satisfaction burned within him. He had pushed himself further than before, and tomorrow he would push even harder.

As night fell, he sat by the brook, letting the cool water soothe his aching hands. He gazed at his reflection in the rippling surface, the fire in his eyes undimmed. "I will not stop," he said softly. "The Academy will see my worth. My trees will reveal their secrets. And I will become who I was meant to be."

The stars emerged one by one, their light casting a silver glow over the forest. Leaning back, Argolaith let the sounds of the woods lull him into rest. His journey was only beginning, but with each step, each swing, and each moment of struggle, he was carving his destiny. And he would let nothing stand in his way.