"Some bonds are born not from words, but from quiet recognition."
The grove had grown brighter. Not by sunlight, but by life.
Fifty-three beastmen now called it home — hunters, wanderers, the wounded and weary. Over time, their shelters had become sturdier, their voices louder, their laughter more frequent. The rhythm of survival had turned into something that almost resembled peace.
Among them, Rhaegor stood as both leader and anchor.
He carried himself with calm authority, though his gaze often lingered far away — toward a past painted in blood and ash.
The humans had come at dawn, he had once told them. Flames devoured his village. Screams filled the air. When it ended, only a handful survived — fifty-three souls who fled north through rivers and mountains, finding sanctuary by chance in this strange, living grove.
His mate, Sila, had fallen protecting their young.
Of his two children, the older one, Ryn, had inherited his father's steel. Barely eleven, the boy already trained with Thorn's hunters, though his heart was too heavy for his age.
The younger, Liri, was five — a quiet child with bright amber eyes and soft white fur tipped with silver. She often wandered close to the heart of the grove, humming songs no one had taught her.
And the grove… always listened.
---
The young tree had watched them through passing moons, his awareness extending like a slow tide. He no longer observed only motion or sound — he began to feel them.
Their joy, their fear, their grief.
Especially hers.
Liri was different.
When others played, she would sit between his roots, tracing their ridges with tiny fingers, giggling softly as if speaking to an unseen friend.
At first, he thought it coincidence — a child's habit. But then he felt it: faint pulses of awareness, like ripples meeting in still water.
"She… senses me."
A flicker of warmth stirred within him. For the first time, someone felt his existence. Not as air, not as shade — but as presence.
He focused gently, channeling the barest whisper of Mana toward her. The air shimmered faintly, the grass swaying though no wind passed.
Liri gasped — not in fear, but wonder.
Her small hand pressed against the bark.
A soft glow flickered beneath her fingers, fading as quickly as it came.
"Papa!" she called, laughing. "The tree smiled at me!"
Rhaegor chuckled, though the sound carried sorrow. "Trees don't smile, little one. They're silent watchers."
But later that night, when she slept by the roots, the young tree extended his awareness again. Not words — he had none. Just feelings. Warmth. Curiosity. Recognition.
And she dreamed.
Of green light and quiet whispers, of a voice without a mouth, saying:
"I see you."
---
Days passed. The child continued to visit him, bringing pebbles, feathers, or petals as though they were gifts.
Maera, the healer, began to notice how the plants near the girl always seemed lusher, the air gentler, the animals calmer.
Whispers spread: "The grove watches through her."
But the young tree wasn't watching through anyone. He was simply… learning.
Liri's laughter resonated like a melody that reached something deep inside him.
Fragments stirred again — the faint image of a small human girl running through sunlight, a man's hand reaching to steady her, the warmth of a smile.
"A daughter?"
The thought came unbidden. It wasn't clear, but the ache it brought was unmistakably human.
For the first time, he longed to speak.
To tell her that he was here.
That he was listening.
But no sound came.
Only a quiet vibration through the roots, gentle enough not to frighten her.
Liri tilted her head, ears twitching.
"Hello again," she whispered. "I missed you."
---
One evening, as dusk fell, Rhaegor approached the grove's center, watching his daughter laugh among the roots.
His gaze softened. For a moment, the weight of leadership, loss, and vengeance seemed to fade.
He placed a hand on the bark and murmured quietly, "Whoever you are… thank you."
The tree didn't respond with words — only with stillness, deep and resonant.
Leaves rustled softly overhead, like a sigh in answer.
And for that moment, man and nature shared something older than language — the quiet understanding of those who had both lost, yet still endured.
---
That night, as stars shimmered through the canopy, the young tree retreated into thought.
Through the girl, through their lives, through the fragile peace that pulsed through the grove, he had begun to rediscover the faint outline of his former self.
Not yet a man.
Not yet a god.
But something in between — a bridge of roots and memory.
"Perhaps this is why I still grow," he thought. "To remember what it means to care."
And in the silence of the forest, a faint whisper of Mana pulsed from his core — a resonance not of power, but of emotion.
A heartbeat.