Sylas's POV:
The forest's heart thundered inside him.
Every breath burned green‑gold. Every pulse echoed through the sanctuary, shaking the stone, the water, the air. Sylas pressed both hands to Rielun's chest, fighting to keep the boy anchored as the ritual tore the world open around them.
The spiraling water columns twisted faster, glowing so brightly they cast shadows like blades across the trees. Roots surged beneath the pool, wrapping Rielun in a cradle of living wood.
And still—
it wasn't enough.
Rielun flickered.
Not physically.
Not magically.
But soul‑deep.
One moment he was the boy in Sylas's arms—small, fragile, trembling.
The next, he was older, brighter, glowing with a light that didn't belong to this world.
His voice slipped between ages, between selves, between lives.
"Don't—"
"Please—"
"Stay—"
"Rielun—!"
The last one wasn't his voice at all.
It was the echo of the guardian who had failed him.
Sylas's heart clenched.
"Elias!" he shouted. "He's splitting—!"
"I see it," Elias said, breathless, eyes blazing with prophecy-light. "His past and present are colliding. The Hollow is pulling at the fracture."
Black cracks split the air at the edges of the sanctuary, spider‑webbing outward like shattered glass. A cold wind swept through the glade, carrying the Hollow's hungry whisper.
Aeris cried out, clutching Rielun's shoulders. "Stay with us— please— stay—!"
Noctis snarled, shadows flaring violently. "Sylas, he's slipping! Do something!"
Rowan braced them both, grounding them with sheer force of will.
Sylas felt the forest's heart surge inside him—wild, ancient, overwhelming.
The roots pulled at him.
The earth called to him.
The old magic whispered:
Let go. Become us.
Sylas's vision blurred. His hands trembled. The forest's power roared through him, too vast, too old, too alive.
He was losing himself.
"Sylas!" Elias grabbed his shoulders, shaking him hard. "Stay with me!"
Sylas gasped, dragging in a breath that tasted like moss and lightning.
"I— I can't— it's too much—"
Elias's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
"Hear the prophecy as it changes."
The air froze.
Even the Hollow paused.
Elias spoke, voice trembling as the words rewrote themselves in real time.
"The forest's heart will falter
if the chosen loses himself.
The teardrop reborn will shatter
unless bound by living root.
Only the healer who stands between worlds
can call the soul back to its vessel."
Sylas's breath caught.
"That's you," Elias said fiercely. "You are the one who stands between worlds. The forest chose you because you can hold him when no one else can."
Rielun convulsed, light bursting from his chest in a blinding wave.
The Hollow screamed.
The sanctuary cracked.
The water shattered into floating shards of light.
Sylas forced his hands down, channeling every root, every leaf, every breath of the forest into Rielun's breaking light.
"Come back," Sylas whispered. "Come back to us. Come back to me."
The forest surged through him—
wild, ancient, unstoppable.
Rielun's glow intensified, shifting from gold to white‑gold, brighter than the moon, brighter than the sanctuary, brighter than anything Sylas had ever seen.
The ritual reached its peak.
Light exploded outward, swallowing everything.
Aeris screamed.
Noctis shielded him with shadows.
Rowan held them both.
Elias shouted something Sylas couldn't hear.
And then—
The light collapsed inward.
Silence.
The water fell still.
The roots loosened.
The air stopped trembling.
Sylas blinked, vision swimming.
Rielun lay limp in the cradle of roots, chest rising in shallow, fragile breaths.
Sylas leaned closer, heart pounding.
"Rielun…?"
A flicker.
A twitch of fingers.
A breath.
And then—
Rielun's eyes opened.
White‑gold.
Glowing.
Ancient.
Sylas exhaled in relief—
—and collapsed.