The Fallen Tree
Atta's breath caught the moment his sister vanished. The garden was quiet, yet the Sword of Derona pulsed in his grip, and a voice echoed in his mind.
"Boy… we should talk."
His knuckles whitened on the blade. "What do you want, Azeon?" he whispered through clenched teeth.
The voice chuckled low and cold. "Close your eyes."
Atta gritted his teeth. "Why would I? Everything that's happening to me—it's because of you."
"Close. Your. Eyes."
Anger flared, but curiosity—and something deeper—made him obey. He shut his eyes, and when they opened again, the world had changed.
He stood in a vast, hollowed tree, its trunk split open as if by an ancient blast. Shards of bark jutted upward like broken ribs. Atta sat at its center, a heavy silence pressing down on him.
Then came the laughter. Low, eerie.
"Hii… haa… hii… hoo… haaa."
Atta's gaze snapped upward.
For the first time, he saw Azeon's true form.
A young man, no older than twenty in appearance, lounged casually on a massive branch of the fallen tree. Pale skin shimmered against the shadows, his pure white eyes glowing faintly. From his head curved antler-like horns, brown and majestic, not grotesque as Atta had feared. He looked calm—strikingly beautiful, even—which unsettled Atta more than a monstrous visage would have.
"Who… are you?" Atta demanded.
Azeon didn't answer at first. He tossed a crimson apple lazily into the air, catching it with a smirk. Finally, he spoke, voice smooth and almost bored.
"I'm Azeon, boy. And this?" He gestured around lazily. "This is my inner dimension. The place in your mind where I've been sealed."
Atta stiffened, then forced himself to relax. "Why bring me here?"
For a moment, Azeon only toyed with the apple, biting into it with a crunch before replying.
"Because of that blade you just received. The Sword of Derona. Do you even know its history?"
Atta frowned. "Yes. It's the only sword that ever drew your blood."
At that, Azeon finally glanced at him from the corner of his glowing eyes. A sly smile tugged his lips. "True… but only half true."
"What do you mean?"
"This is the sword that cut me, yes. But only because it was mine to begin with. I wounded myself—while I slept."
The words sank into Atta like stones into water. He opened his mouth, but Azeon continued, his gaze turning toward the broken sky above the tree.
"Listen carefully, boy. I am not the danger you should be afraid of."
Atta's brow furrowed. "Then what is?"
Azeon took another slow bite of his apple before answering. "Family."
Atta blinked. "Family?"
"I have one," Azeon said simply, almost bitterly. "And lately… I can feel them. After six thousand years, their presence stirs again."
The weight of the words pressed down on Atta, far too vast for his young mind. His confusion was plain, and Azeon sighed, tossing the half-eaten apple into the void.
"Don't trouble yourself with it now. They won't arrive for three or four years yet. Good for you, I don't like them much. Perhaps… I'll even help you when the time comes."
His white eyes locked on Atta, gleaming with something unreadable—part malice, part amusement.
Atta shivered, unsure whether to feel dread… or relief.
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To Be Continued