Far beyond a forest of green mist, the capital of the Elves rose—not like a city, but like a dream sprouting from soil, light, and song.
The saint walked upon a path of interwoven roots pulsing with life. They were not cold roads of stone or clay, but living branches that bowed gently beneath her steps, as if recognizing her. And the closer she drew to the heart of the capital, the more she heard the hidden sounds—the whispers of trees, the hymns of the air, and faint pulses... as if the tree had a heartbeat.
Then the great tree appeared before her.
It was not merely a living being. It was memory. A towering column of light rising from the heart of the earth to the sky, its branches touching the clouds, its roots branching into unfathomable depths. Around it, the city wrapped like a green scarf—its buildings planted in the air, hanging between the branches or growing atop ancient trunks. No one knew whether the tree embraced the city, or the city had sprouted from it.
The saint was led upward, to the palace.
The palace was part of the tree, built of living light and purple bark that pulsed like warm skin. When she entered, an ancient scent overwhelmed her—not one with a name, but one that awakened something in the heart whose origin she could not place.
The Queen was waiting.
Tall, proud, her hair flowing like a stream of burning silver, and her eyes wide, holding a gaze that did not look at you but through you.
She was not alone. At her side stood the King, quieter, with eyes as dark as the roots of the earth. And on a nearby step sat their daughter—a child no older than ten, her hair like moonlight, and her eyes as clear as a lake untouched.
The Queen spoke, her voice laced with song: "You have arrived."
The saint answered softly: "As it was written."
The Queen stepped forward and said: "The Tree felt you the moment you crossed the forest's edge. The light changed, the breeze shifted. No one enters here without being called."
The King said, his voice deep: "But the call alone is not enough. Whoever enters must be woven from a thread that binds them to us."
The saint looked at them and said: "I am not of your blood... but I carried something of the light the world forgot. Perhaps that is what the path saw in me."
A moment of silence followed.
Then the little girl stepped forward. She looked long at the saint, then said in a delicate voice: "Are you sad?"
Words froze on the saint's lips. She did not answer at once. Then she lowered herself to her knees before the child and said: "I… feel light, like a leaf… but inside me is something heavy without a name."
The child raised her hand and touched the saint's forehead. "I feel it… but it is not evil. It is waiting."
The Queen smiled, and raised her hand to invite them all to sit.
In the great hall, the four of them sat upon round cushions growing from the ground, like flowers prepared for conversation. Tea arrived, green, translucent, in cups made of curved leaves.
The King said: "Rarely do we receive humans here. But you are not only human."
The saint said, her eyes fixed on the light hanging from the ceiling: "For a long time… I have forgotten what I am. I remember my face, but I do not remember my heart."
The Queen said slowly: "Forgetfulness is not weakness. It is a door. And some doors can only be opened from within."
The saint looked at her and said: "Did you know why I came?"
The queen spoke, her eyes unblinking:
"You came because something in the heart of the earth is stirring. And we, despite our beauty and peace, do not live apart from the deep roots."
The king said:
"Everything that trembles in the shadows... sends its echo to us."
The queen said:
"But we will not ask you why you came, rather we will ask: do you want to know?"
The saint was silent. Then she said:
"I fear to know."
Suddenly, the little girl said, looking out the window at the tree:
"Those who fear... are the ones who are chosen."
The king smiled and said to his daughter:
"You still remember your grandmother's sayings."
The little one gave a short laugh, then said to the saint:
"Will you stay here?"
The queen said:
"If she stays, then our home is hers. And if she leaves, then our paths remain open to her as long as the tree breathes."
Then the queen rose and signaled to one of her attendants.
"They will accompany you to the upper wing. It belonged to my eldest daughter, but she no longer needs it."
She paused a moment, then added:
"This place... is not only peace. It is a mirror. And if you look into it long enough, you will see what is never spoken."
The royal family bid her farewell and left her to walk alone among trunks from which inaudible music emerged, toward her new room that awaited her like a dream forgotten long ago.
And that night… the saint slept for the first time without carrying a sword between her ribs.
But sleep did not come gently as she had imagined. In the depths of the shadows, and between folds of slumber, a nightmare crept in, light as the whisper of a dagger. She saw herself walking in a land without sun, without night… only ash suspended in the air, and faint sounds like the weeping of stones. Something was chasing her—unseen, untouchable, but present in every corner. Then, suddenly, she was standing before a grave with no name, and from beneath the earth, a hand wrapped in black ribbons rose and gripped her heart—not her body.
She woke suddenly, neither screaming nor trembling, but her breath was heavier than usual, and her eyes clung to the ceiling as if she hadn't entirely left that dream.
With the sunrise, the capital glowed with a soft green light, as if the mist itself had turned golden. On the high balcony overlooking half the city, the queen sat waiting for her.
The table was carefully prepared—small plates of translucent fruits as if plucked from the tree's very light, and warm tea fragrant with blossoms and honey.
The queen said, sipping from her cup:
"Rarely do those like you dream. Sleep usually dares not touch your kind's hearts."
The saint sat silently, looking out over the capital stretching beneath her, branches embracing the buildings, and light creatures floating in the air as if swimming in an unseen river.
After a moment, she said:
"It was a dream… but it felt more real than anything I've ever seen."
The queen nodded, then pointed to a distant spot in the sky.
"You will be called soon… the grandmother saw a sign in the stillness. That does not happen every century."
The saint raised her eyebrows.
"She's still alive?"
The queen gave a light laugh:
"The grandmother? The grandmother does not die. We die, time dies… but she, no. She is like a trunk at the heart of time. Unbreakable."
They finished their breakfast quietly, without need for words, as spirits do when they know that deep conversation does not begin with the tongue.
Then the saint walked through the high corridors, alone, exploring what had not been told. Among the high branches, the city appeared like a dream floating above a forest. The tree stretched above her like a celestial being, its branches touching the sky and sinking into the mist.
She stood at the edge of a balcony winding around one of the main branches, and raised her eyes.
Above her… there was not only green and branches, but something else. A dense light moving as if filled with souls, whispers unintelligible, faint callings not heard by ears, but felt by the soul. And suddenly, a passage opened before her—one that could only be seen by those who are called.
Small doors appeared in the trunk before her—untouched, unopened—rather, they breathed before her, as if the tree was granting her a path not given to anyone in a long time.
The guards approached her… four elves dressed in sheer fabrics as if made of light and mirage. They said nothing, but gestured for her to follow them.
They led her through unmarked paths, above layers of air, to a place higher than anything she had seen. Even the branches were less dense, as if the area had been stripped of daily life to be consecrated for the eternal secret.
Then she entered.
Inside the tree was not what she had imagined.
There was a vast space with no walls to bound it, though everything was within the trunk. And the light... a green glow radiating from a great fissure in the living wall, as if the tree had split thousands of years ago, yet still held its light deep within—like a heart singing to itself.
And beside that fissure sat an old woman.
She did not see her face at first. She was facing the light, her hair long, grey like dust that does not die, and her body slender as if the wind could carry it, yet firm like an ancient blade.
The grandmother spoke, without turning:
"You have come."
The saint replied in a low voice:
"The tree called me."