The path ended in roots.

  Not in dirt or stone, but in a tangled wall of knotted, bark-wrapped roots thick enough to block a wagon road. They arched overhead, spiraled sideways, looped into themselves like petrified serpents caught mid-thrash. Vines dangled like forgotten ropes. The air was still.

  “There’s something behind this,” Caelum said softly, not sure how he knew.

  “There’s always something behind things like this,” Jonas muttered. “That’s the problem.”

  Orrin stepped forward and ran a hand along the bark. “Old. Listening. Don’t knock too loud.”

  Before anyone could reply, the roots shifted—not cracking, not breaking. Just... opening. Slowly. Gently. Enough for a single person to pass through at a time.

  Caelum didn’t ask permission. He stepped into the dark.

  The roots closed behind them without a sound.

  The chamber beyond wasn’t a cave. It wasn’t anything that made sense. It was hollow, yes, but shaped like it had been carved by breath instead of tools—rounded walls slick with moss, warm air that didn’t move, a faint hum beneath their feet.

  In the center, a tree grew upside-down from the ceiling. Its roots—if they were roots—stretched downward like a curtain of tendrils, each one pulsing faintly with gold light. No branches. No leaves. Just the suggestion of them, like something that had already been remembered too long.

  Nobody spoke.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Orrin knelt at the edge of the tree’s glow, silent for once. His hand rested on the earth, fingers twitching slightly as if trying to tap into a rhythm only he could hear.

  Jonas didn’t move from the wall. His hand hovered near his weapon, but didn’t draw.

  Caelum stepped forward. The glow shifted.

  Not brighter. Not closer. Just... aware of him.

  He reached out, not to touch, just to offer.

  And the world answered.

  It wasn’t a sound. Not even a thought. Just an impression:

  A hand, cupped around a flame.

  A city of stone towers, crying out as their lights died one by one.

  A pair of eyes, watching from a sea of vines.

  And a question.

  Do you carry memory? Or do you only inherit it?

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t know how. But something inside him responded anyway.

  The roots moved. Just slightly.

  Your attunement has reached a critical threshold.

  Trait acquired: Dream-Touched (I).

  → You have brushed the deeper layers of ley-memory. Occasionally, the world may answer you in visions or echoes. These cannot be controlled.

  Jonas let out a slow breath. “I saw my sister,” he said, not looking at anyone. “She was at the bakery. Kneading dough like nothing ever changed. But she looked up like she knew I was watching.”

  Caelum turned. “You don’t have a sister.”

  Jonas looked at him. “I know.”

  Orrin stood, brushing moss from his knees. “They show what roots remember. Not what’s real. Or maybe what’s real, just not now.”

  The light dimmed. The tree didn’t disappear, but it let go. The hum faded. The warmth stayed.

  They left the way they came, the roots parting without touch, closing behind them like a secret going back to sleep.

  Nobody spoke on the walk back. Even Orrin.

  By the time they reached the outer rim of the Wound, the sky had shifted. Less green in the light now. More blue. And somewhere ahead, Metoria waited—its chimneys coughing into the horizon, its streets heavy with footsteps that hadn’t noticed the world had shifted.

  Jonas broke the silence first.

  “So. We going back to say goodbye, or just grabbing a roll and leaving?”

  Caelum looked ahead. He felt the weight in his chest—the dream, the breath of the roots, the question that still hadn’t let go.

  He said, “We go back. Just for a little while.”

  Orrin smiled faintly, eyes unfocused. “They always do, the first time.”

  And the trees behind them made no sound at all.