In the far reaches of the world, beyond the lands men tread, the heart trees watched.
Roots wound deep beneath the earth, vast and ancient, connected not by soil alone but by memory and time. Their white bark bled crimson tears, their carved faces wept silently as wind stirred their rust-red leaves.
They did not speak. They did not breathe.
But they knew.
And when the moment came, they chose.
From another world, they pulled a soul—not by force, but by beckoning. A gentle whisper across veils of existence. They had felt his presence before he had ever seen them: the boy who loved trees, who listened to wind, who sang to himself without shame. The boy who felt unseen in his own world. A boy shaped by silence and solitude. A boy who could become more.
He had not come alone. They had woven a companion into his fate—a creature of fur and tooth and soul-bond, born not just to protect, but to remind him he was never alone. Their magic ran through the wolf's blood as surely as it now stirred in the boy's.
The greenseers of old had faded, scattered. The last of their kind sat hidden beneath roots, aged beyond time, his skin as pale as milkglass, his eyes white and clouded. The Three-Eyed Raven.
He felt the shift the moment it began.
In the cavern beneath the great weirwood, the light dimmed. Not from flame or shadow, but from something deeper. The connection wavered.
His breath caught.
He sat still, half-wrapped in roots, his body long withered, kept alive only by the ancient power that pulsed around him.
"No," he whispered, his voice like cracking leaves.
He reached out with what little strength remained in him—his mind brushing the network of roots and blood and memory. But they were slipping away from him. Turning.
Why? he thought. Why now?
The weirwood above did not answer.
But he felt it. The red sap stilled. The leaves did not stir. The eyes had closed.
His connection—nurtured over decades—was breaking.
He gasped. Not in pain. In knowing.
"They've chosen another."
From the shadows of the cave, a figure stepped forward—small, slight, with skin like mottled bark and eyes that glowed faintly green.
A Child of the Forest.
She had no name spoken in the tongues of men. Her people had long since retreated, watching in silence as the world forgot them.
She looked upon the Three-Eyed Raven with something close to sorrow.
"You felt it," she said softly.
He nodded once. "The trees… turned."
"They have chosen differently."
His gaze turned upward. "Is he already here?"
The Child hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. They brought him beneath the northern snows. By a weirwood deep in the forest. He has awakened."
He closed his eyes.
"And does he know?"
She stepped closer, her voice gentler still. "No. He does not yet remember who he is. But they will guide him. In time, he will begin to see."
The Raven turned his head toward the great tree that loomed above them. His voice cracked. "Then it is done."
The Child placed a hand on his shoulder—light, but steady.
"They are not cruel. You will not suffer. But your thread fades now, quietly. You were part of the long memory. And now, the memory moves forward."
He said nothing. But he felt it. The cold creeping deeper into his bones. The absence where once there was fire. The trees had turned their faces away.
It was not punishment.
It was release.
His breath slowed. His heartbeat thinned.
His eyes lingered on the branches above, just once more.
"I hope they chose well."
The Child stood with him in silence.
"They did."
The cave grew still. The roots settled.
And the last breath of the old greenseer drifted into the soil of the world, where it would rest in silence.