Chapter 168 – The Wood's Judgment
The winding, light-led path narrowed until the trees pressed close and the air seemed to hum with unseen breath. At its end rose a gate woven of living roots, gnarled and ancient, sealed as if no hand had ever touched it. Two Viera guards stood before it, spears glinting faintly in the green glow.
When Aerith and the others emerged from the jungle's shadow, the guards froze. Their ears flicked sharply, eyes widening in disbelief.
"No outsider may pass," one said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "The Wood itself bars the way. And yet… it yields."
The other's stance hardened. Her grip on the spear whitened as suspicion sharpened her tone. "Humes cannot set foot here. This is… wrong."
Her gaze swept over Clive with his flame-licked sword, Auron looming like a stone wall, Vivi's small dark figure clutching a staff, Serah poised with bow and Mog's smug pom perched high, and Lunafreya glowing with her Oracle's light. None of them belonged here. None should ever have been allowed within the Wood's embrace.
The first guard leveled her spear toward Aerith, accusation burning in her eyes. "What trickery is this? Witchcraft? Deception?"
Aerith stepped forward calmly. Her staff rested against her palm as though she leaned on its quiet strength. She lowered her head in a bow. "I didn't force my way in. The Wood… called to me. It knows I listen."
Her voice stilled the very air. The guards exchanged uncertain glances, their ears twitching as though they feared even the branches might overhear their whispers.
"The Wood speaks in roots and leaves," one murmured. "Never has it welcomed an outsider… but this one carries its song."
---
Word spread as fast as wind through leaves. The village stirred, and soon the elders came, their steps soundless across the branch-woven bridges. At their head walked Jote, Fran's sister, her presence commanding silence before she even spoke.
Her eyes fixed on Aerith with unblinking intensity, weighing her as if to find cracks invisible to mortal sight. She was still as carved wood, a presence born of centuries of listening to the forest's voice.
At last she spoke, her voice low but edged with iron. "The Wood does not err. If it allowed you passage, then you bear something beyond human. But the same cannot be said of your companions."
Her eyes flicked across the others. Clive stiffened but inclined his head in respect, flames on his sword guttering into embers. Vivi shuffled nervously, pulling his hat lower to hide the glow of his eyes. Serah frowned, hugging Mog close as if he might shield her. Auron's expression betrayed nothing, but his hand rested firmly on his great sword's hilt. Lunafreya's gaze held steady, calm but filled with quiet sorrow at the weight of their judgment.
The elders conferred among themselves, voices hushed and heavy. When Jote lifted her staff, all fell silent again.
"The Wood has not chosen you, hume warriors. But it has chosen her. You walk only in her shadow. Betray this gift, and you will never leave alive."
The warning fell like a decree. No one doubted its truth.
---
The gates of roots groaned, unwinding with the slow certainty of age. Beyond them lay Eryut Village.
The sight stole breath. Branches arched into bridges high above the ground, criss-crossing like strands of a web. Homes grew seamlessly from the trunks of colossal trees, windows glowing with woven-vine lanterns filled with natural aether. The village pulsed as though alive, every leaf and root singing in harmony.
Viera moved with feline grace along the bridges, their tall forms poised and silent, ears flicking like the forest's own. Their silver hair caught the lantern light like moonfire, their gazes piercing as if they saw not just faces, but souls.
Serah gasped, eyes shining. "It's incredible…"
Mog puffed his pom, grumbling. "Too tall, kupo! Mog's going to get a sore neck staring up all the time!"
Vivi's eyes glowed wide beneath his brim, awe softening the usual sadness that clung to him. Lunafreya smiled faintly, though her voice trembled with wistful envy. "They are bound to the Wood itself. A harmony most worlds can only dream of."
Aerith's breath caught in her chest. She admired their poise, their effortless strength, their unity. For a moment she envied them—their belonging, their rootedness. "Even their figures carry the Wood's blessing," she whispered. "I can only borrow what they are born with."
---
In the elder hall, roots formed pillars that reached like cathedral arches. The air was thick with incense of crushed leaves and sap. Jote sat cross-legged at the center, her gaze steady as stone.
"The Wood opened to you," she said. "Speak. Why?"
Aerith bowed, pressing her staff to the floor. Her voice was soft but firm. "The forest is screaming. Not in words, but in sorrow. It is crying for help. But it has not told me what's wrong."
Silence fell heavy. Even the leaves outside the hall seemed to hold their breath. The elders exchanged troubled glances, their ears twitching as if they, too, had heard whispers carried in the roots.
At last Jote inclined her head, her voice grave. "The Wood does not cry without reason. We will heed this warning."
Her staff struck the ground lightly. "You may continue your journey. But we will send our own to investigate. The sorrow you speak of must not be ignored."
Clive inclined his head, voice level. "That's all we ask."
---
They left beneath wary stares. Some Viera glared openly, hands tight on their weapons. Others watched silently, eyes filled with the weight of unspoken judgment. None tried to stop them.
Beyond the gates, the forest's silence returned, thicker now that the village lay behind them. Aerith released a slow breath, leaning on her staff as though it alone held her steady.
"They'll remember this," she murmured. "The Wood will too. Whatever is wrong here… it isn't finished with us yet."
Clive's gaze was already north, toward the icy peaks that cut the horizon. "Then we keep moving. Paramina Rift awaits."
The gates of roots closed behind them, sealing the village away. Yet whispers clung to the air, drifting like leaves—whispers of humes allowed into sacred ground, and of the warning carried by a stranger who spoke the Wood's sorrow. Already, scouts were preparing to leave Eryut, to follow that sorrow's trail into the dark.