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  The forest breathed with autumn. The trees burned with copper, orange, and deep crimson, as if nature were having one final explosion of color before everything fell asleep beneath the snow. Withered leaves crunched underfoot. The air was fresh as crystal, and the silence around them wasn't dead, but cozy—like a heavy blanket.

  An abandoned temple stood amidst the woods, half-hidden by ivy and wild grapes that clawed into the cracks of the walls as if trying to embrace the stone. Columns that had withstood centuries were overgrown with moss and cobwebs, while the faded mosaics on the walls stubbornly preserved the faces of forgotten spirits. A presence of time reigned here—not human time, but forest time: slow and patient. It seemed the trees themselves had taken this place under their protection. The stone floor retained the soft warmth of the day's sun, and the roof, though pierced in several spots, still offered shelter from the rain and prying eyes.

  “It’s safe here,” Odd said, as if testing not just the room, but the very air. His voice, usually guarded, sounded quiet this time.

  Brenn, wasting no time, was already building a fire in the center of the hall. He tossed in dry branches, and the flames leaped to life, illuminating the mosaics with dancing shadows. Smoke rose, dissolving into the jagged ceiling, and the scent of burning wood wove into the cool air.

  Irellis sat beside Violetta, pulling a comb and a few wooden pins from her pack.

  “May I?” she asked, tilting her head slightly like a cat wanting to be touched but waiting for permission.

  “Of course,” Violetta replied. Her voice didn't just express consent; it radiated warmth, trust, and gratitude.

  While Irellis slowly braided her hair into a neat plait, Brenn taught Tillo how to sharpen an axe. He sat on broken stairs with a set of whetstones, steel salve, and an old rag before him. His double-bladed axe already gleamed like an old wolf’s teeth.

  “Look, Tillo,” he grunted, “don’t move the stone like a drunken dwarf on ice. Hold the angle! And don’t flinch at the sparks—if you don't singe your beard, it doesn't count as training.”

  “What if I do singe it?” the boy winked.

  “Then we’ll turn you into a festive torch and roast a hare. Hey—we’ll get warmth and meat at the same time!” Brenn roared with laughter. “As they say, a dull axe is the enemy of the woodsman. And the cook, for that matter. Though with a cook like you, you’d probably find a way to make porridge out of thin air.”

  “I’d cook you a star-stew if you hadn't stolen my last bit of seasoning!” Tillo snapped back with a grin.

  Above all this—like a shadow, like a part of the forest itself—Odd sat in silence. He had perched on a thick branch of an old oak near the temple, merging with the boughs as if he were part of the tree. But this time, he wasn't scouting or watching for danger. His gaze was fixed upward, on the stars.

  “The stars... they stay the same. Even after everything,” he whispered.

  Brenn looked up.

  “Talking to the heavens again, I see,” he said without mockery, only understanding.

  “My sister believed souls go to the stars...” Odd replied, almost inaudibly. “Maybe she was right.”

  Irellis froze for a moment, her fingers still in Violetta’s hair. She looked at Odd, saying nothing, but her gaze was soft and attentive. No one asked what he had lost. For they had all lost something.

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  That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving only a smoldering golden rim, the sky turned to deep velvet, dusted with cold silver sparks. The air grew damp; the earth cooled. The forest stilled into a soft silence where every sound echoed clearly—the snap of a twig, the rustle of fallen leaves, the whisper of the night wind.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The Sphere issued a weak pulse, barely felt in Violetta’s ear—not as a command, but as a gentle reminder.

  [ECHO DETECTED. PROBABLE RESIDUAL ASCARI ENERGY. SOURCE: NEARBY VEGETATION. MARKING COORDINATES.]

  “Strange...” Violetta whispered, catching her breath.

  But it wasn't a feeling of dread. On the contrary—for the first time in ages, her heart settled. It was as if something embraced her from within, tenderly, like a familiar voice whispering: I am here. You are not alone.

  She moved deeper into the forest, picking her way through dry leaves and branches. Where the Sphere’s marker led, a tree stood—ordinary at first glance, though old and massive, with gnarled roots crawling from the earth like the veins of an ancient titan. But at night, it changed: its bark pulsed with a soft light—dim, yet deep, like light from the bottom of a dream. Silvery-warm with pearlescent hues, it shimmered with the colors of memory—now a blue-sadness, now a golden-joy, now green as the grass of childhood.

  It did not look threatening. On the contrary—there was something deeply familiar about this tree. Like an old friend; a memory of something forgotten yet cherished.

  Violetta sat slowly by the trunk, touching the rough bark. A faint warmth radiated from it—not physical, but emotional, like a presence. She closed her eyes and let the feeling envelop her. And then, a strange certainty took hold: the tree remembers. It doesn't just exist—it knows. As if it carries thousands of years within, containing pain, joy, loss, and peace.

  And for a second—brief as a hand’s touch in a dream—she felt... her mother. The one who had vanished forever. Her scent, gentle fingers in her hair, a familiar wordless lullaby.

  [SITE REDUCES TOXIC IMPACT OF ENVIRONMENTAL ENERGY. SIGNAL STABLE. ADDING SAMPLE TO DATABASE.]

  The Sphere spoke with unusual softness. There was no mechanical sharpness in its tone, only a whisper that did not disturb the silence. Even the machine, it seemed, felt it: one should not speak loudly here. This place listens.

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  Tillo couldn't sleep. His mind raced, and a heavy, unspoken knot sat in his chest: What if she vanishes? What if she just leaves without a word? Like when Marissa—kind, bright Marissa—left her guild. Only to be found later... in a pit.

  The boy stood up and scanned the camp. The embers glowed, the wind played with the tents, and the sentry yawned in the dark. Suddenly, he felt it: something was missing... someone.

  Violetta was gone.

  He found her nearby, at the base of that same tree. She sat with a straight back, feet tucked beneath her, palms resting on her knees. Her eyes were closed. Her face was peaceful, almost unearthly. The tree's light pulsed rhythmically, as if breathing with her. This wasn't just a meditative pose—it was an existence within something else. In a deep, pure core of the world.

  “Am I interrupting?” Tillo asked timidly, unsure if he had the right to be there.

  “No,” Violetta opened her eyes. Her voice was soft as a night after rain. “Sit beside me. It’s calm here.”

  He sat, a bit awkwardly. He looked at the tree. The light slid across its bark like firefly petals in water.

  “It’s... beautiful,” Tillo whispered. “Mystical. I’ve only seen things like this in fairy tales.”

  “Maybe it is a fairy tale,” Violetta smiled.

  They fell silent. The forest breathed with the night. Owls rustled in the distance. The tree pulsed steadily, like the heart of a forgotten planet.

  “When I was a kid, I wanted to be an archmage,” Tillo murmured. “You know, a hero who flies around, shoots lightning, and saves princesses.”

  “And how many have you saved?”

  “Pff. I still can’t boil buckwheat without starting a fire.” He threw his hands up. “But I dreamed.”

  Violetta smiled. “I wanted to heal. To be a healer. But they told me: beast-kin aren't fit for that. That we’re wild. That magic doesn't listen to us. But when a boy from my hamlet was drowning, I didn't ask magic for permission. I just jumped into the water—and saved him.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “I know. Back then... I was happy. For a little while, but I was happy.”

  Tillo pressed his lips together. He wanted to say something wise. About choices, about the power of good. But something else came out:

  “When I was a kid, I ate a nail. I thought it was a lollipop.”

  First—silence. Then—an explosion of laughter. Real laughter, from the belly, with a smile that brought tears. Violetta laughed so genuinely that Tillo nearly choked with pride. For this laughter... was more valuable than all the spells in the world.

  “Are you stupid?” she squeezed out through her giggles, wiping her eyes.

  “Maybe. But I'm fun.”

  “Thank you, Tillo,” she whispered, settling down. “I don't remember the last time I laughed. Not smiled, but laughed.”

  “You’ll laugh more. I'm right here.”

  The wind gently swayed the leaves. The tree's light continued to pulse—quietly, rhythmically. The night no longer seemed so dark. And the world—not so lonely.