Roots of Desire

  Chapter 3: The Forest’s Judgment

  Woodward moved through the darkened forest, his humanoid form merging with the shadows. The stillness of the night wrapped around him like a cloak, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. His senses, finely attuned to the land, hummed with the quiet rhythm of the world around him, yet tonight, the forest felt different. A subtle shift tugged at his awareness, a quiet unease that threaded its way through the air.

  His mind was preoccupied with the human woman; the one he had carried from the forest’s edge. Her presence, though fleeting, had left a mark on him. The memory of her form, fragile and yet strong in her own way, lingered like an echo in the depths of his thoughts. He had felt a pull toward her, an inexplicable connection, and it disturbed him. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling such things as attachments, curiosity, and emotions as they had no place in his world of ancient trees and eternal balance.

  The Grove loomed ahead, its ancient trees stretching upward like silent sentinels. As Woodward crossed its threshold, he felt the weight of the forest’s ancient power settle around him. Here, among the sacred trees, the magic of the land pulsed, deep and unwavering. He paused for a moment, resting his hand against the bark of a towering oak. The earth beneath his feet was familiar, steady. But his thoughts were elsewhere.

  His fingers traced the contours of the bark, reaching out to the land, his senses seeking deeper communion with the forest. The pull of the woman’s presence lingered, undeniable. The land responded to her, as if it too recognized something in her; a connection far older than the eyes could see. But why had it stirred him so deeply? Woodward had seen humans come and go, had observed them from the shadows, but this one... she was different.

  With a deep breath, Woodward closed his eyes. A wave of power surged through him, and he allowed it to overtake his body. The transformation was effortless. His humanoid form, built of wood and bark, rippled, and with a low groan, his body expanded, towering over the ground. His skin thickened into rough bark, his limbs elongated into massive, gnarled arms, and his back arched into the towering form of a Treant. The air around him seemed to hum as the transformation completed, and the energy of the forest flowed through him like a living current.

  In this form, his senses were heightened, his connection to the land deeper. Every root, every leaf, every whisper of the wind through the trees was amplified. The forest was alive in a way that only those like him could truly understand. It spoke to him, murmured its secrets, and he listened.

  Woodward extended his senses outward, reaching for the village on the horizon. He could feel the land’s subtle pulse, the rhythms of human life stirring in the distance. But there, faint as a distant memory, was her presence; the human woman. He focused, honing in on her familiar aura, his connection to her growing clearer. She had been close to the forest, and now... she was somewhere just beyond its edge.

  He stepped forward, his heavy steps causing the earth to tremble slightly beneath him, and he reached out with his senses further, following the faint thread that connected them. The pulse of her aura was gentle, fragile, but it was unmistakable, a low hum that resonated with something primal deep within him. The forest felt it too, and as he focused, he could sense how the trees bent subtly toward the village, their limbs stretching and swaying as if they, too, were drawn to the human woman.

  She belonged to the forest in some way, Woodward realized. Not fully, but her connection was undeniable. He could feel it in the depths of his roots, the way the land responded to her; a presence that blended the human world and the natural world in a way he had never encountered before in all his years.

  With the transformation complete, he moved cautiously, a colossal figure now standing amidst the towering trees. The quiet crackling of leaves underfoot was replaced by the deep, rumbling creak of wood moving. His limbs were like the thick trunks of trees, but his thoughts, his focus, remained on the woman.

  A decision began to form in his mind. He couldn’t ignore this pull, this connection. He needed to understand it, to observe her more closely. It was his duty, as a protector of the forest, to ensure that nothing threatened the delicate balance between the land and the people who lived on its edges. But more than that, there was something in her; a mystery; that beckoned him.

  The air within the Grove grew heavier as Woodward stilled beneath the boughs of the ancient oaks. A memory, as ancient as the roots beneath his feet, pulled him backward.

  Primeval times. When the world was young and wild, before kingdoms rose and fell, before men struck iron to shape their dominion. The forest had no borders then; only endless green, stretching beyond the horizon. And at its heart stood the World Tree.

  He remembered the warmth of the earth as he had first awakened; an awareness stirring in the depths of the soil. A seed, buried at the roots of the World Tree, not yet shaped by time. He had not been born as humans were. He had grown, nurtured by the tree’s ancient magic, his being shaped from bark and essence as old as the world itself.

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  For centuries, he had existed as the forest’s will made flesh. Root and bark, guardian and executioner. He had no name; only purpose. It wasn’t until the first humans arrived, fragile and curious, that he began to question his place.

  And now; she.

  The woman who had crossed into the Grove was like no other human he had sensed before. Her presence unsettled the forest’s slumbering magic. The way the land had responded to her touch; it was too familiar. Too much like him.

  The World Tree had told him long ago: When something new enters the forest, it must either be absorbed… or destroyed. Woodward’s great limbs curled inward, fingers tightening against his palm. Destroying her; that was what the Elders would demand. It was what the forest itself might soon ask of him. But the memory of her face, fragile and fierce, refused to fade.

  There was something else at play; something he could not yet see. And for the first time in an age, he did not know if he would obey.

  At first light, his Treant form shifted, bark groaning as his massive body began to shrink. The towering limbs of his otherworldly shape folded into sinew and skin. Soon, his humanoid form stood in the heart of the Grove, though the weight of his true nature clung to him like a shadow.

  Woodward exhaled a long, steady breath. He could not turn away from the pull he felt toward the woman. Whatever she was; whatever part she played in the forest’s shifting magic; he would find out.

  And this time, he would find his own answers.

  The Steward exhaled a satisfied sigh as he shut the heavy oak doors to his study, sealing himself away from the wretched stench of sweat and desperation that clung to the lower halls. The evening had been fruitful, and with his responsibilities concluded for the night, he poured himself a goblet of deep, blood-red wine, savoring the rich aroma before taking a slow sip.

  The chair by the hearth was his favorite spot—a place of quiet indulgence where he could bask in the rewards of his station. But as he turned toward it, he froze.

  A figure already sat there, reclining, entirely at ease. Shadows pooled around him, the flickering firelight barely illuminating the edges of his presence.

  The Steward’s fingers tightened around the stem of his goblet, though he made no sudden move.

  “You could have announced yourself,” he said, voice measured. “Or do you prefer skulking in corners like a stray cat?”

  The figure didn’t move. “You pay me to be unnoticed. I assumed you’d appreciate the efficiency.”

  The Steward took another sip of wine, schooling his expression into one of vague amusement. He had grown used to these sudden appearances, though he would never admit how much they unsettled him.

  “Well?” he prompted. “What news?”

  The figure’s head tilted slightly, the fire catching just enough of his face to reveal a faint smirk. “Things are moving. As planned.” The Steward narrowed his eyes, eyes glinting with both curiosity and a quiet frustration. “Are they, now? I’m not one to rely on half-measures, especially when it concerns the Prince’s desires.”

  The figure straightened slightly, the shadows around him seeming to deepen. “The Prince’s desires are clear. You serve him well, Steward. It’s a delicate balance, after all.” The Steward's jaw tightened, and he shifted in his chair. “You’re walking a fine line, then. Between serving me and serving him.” The figure’s smile barely registered, and his voice remained cool. “You give me too much credit. I merely do what is required of me.”

  “I hope that’s all you do,” the Steward muttered, swirling his wine. “But you seem to have a habit of… interpreting the requirements in your own way.” The figure said nothing at first, then leaned forward slightly, the shadows still clinging to him like a second skin. “I follow orders. But the Prince’s orders are… complex.” A tense silence hung between them. The Steward’s grip on his goblet tightened, but he kept his voice even. “You report to him as much as you report to me.”

  The figure’s eyes glinted, and his lips curled upward into a shadow of a smile. “The Prince has his interests. I serve the needs of those who keep him in power. And you, Steward, know that." The Steward stared at him for a long moment. Then he leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he set the goblet aside.

  “What’s your point?”

  The figure’s posture shifted ever so slightly, but there was no mistaking the weight of his words. “My point is, you’re not the only one pulling strings. And while you’ve done well in your position, remember that the Prince’s reach extends further than yours.”

  The Steward’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”

  The figure’s eyes flashed in the dim light, but his voice remained calm. “Not a threat. A reminder.” A beat of silence passed between them, thick with tension. The Steward’s gaze darkened, but the figure did not flinch. Instead, he allowed the stillness to stretch, a quiet power radiating from him.

  Finally, the Steward exhaled, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. “I don’t take kindly to reminders. I prefer to be in control.”

  The figure’s voice was smooth, measured. “So do I.”

  The Steward stiffened slightly, sensing the hidden undercurrent in the words. He leaned forward, his tone sharp. “You may follow orders, but I’m the one giving them in this room." The figure did not respond immediately, his gaze unwavering. “Of course, Steward. But remember, sometimes the hand that gives the orders is not the one that controls the game.” The Steward’s fingers flexed on the armrests of his chair. He’d played this game long enough to understand the stakes—but this figure, this enigmatic agent of the Prince, was a variable he could not predict.

  He leaned back again, trying to regain his composure, though the weight of the conversation lingered. “Very well. Keep doing what you do. But I want results. Make sure the Prince’s... interests remain secure.” The figure nodded once, his movements eerily fluid as he stood. “Of course. I will ensure everything remains in place.”

  The Steward watched as the figure vanished into the shadows, the chill of his absence settling into the room like a lingering draft. He sat there for a long time, the silence pressing in on him as he stared into the fire, his mind buzzing with questions.

  Outside, the wind howled through the trees, carrying whispers that were never meant to be heard.