The old woman pointed to a small spot beside her — a round bed of soft green moss.
The saint sat there as one would sit entering a sanctuary whose sanctity they had yet to grasp. The old woman kept staring at the crack, silent, as if listening to something beyond human hearing. And the silence was long — not the emptiness of silence, but a silence filled with what cannot be spoken.
At last, the old woman said, without shifting her gaze:
"The tree only calls to those whose footsteps have stirred a thread in the weave of fate."
The saint raised her gaze toward her, but did not interrupt.
The old woman continued, her tone neither gentle nor stern, but old — as old as the tone of a legend spoken aloud:
"In the heart of every world, a tree. And in the heart of every tree, a destination. We do not plant it. We are born from its roots… but only a few ever hear it."
She paused for a moment, then spoke as if continuing something said a thousand years ago:
"Every branch you saw on your journey, every light in the capital, is a reflection of what lies within. But here… this is not the tree that dwells in the city. This is the city that dwells in the tree."
The saint bowed her head and asked:
"And within… what dwells there?"
The old woman smiled for the first time, but still did not turn her head. She said:
"Those who ask that question are often part of the answer."
Then she turned, slowly, and in her eyes was a greenness that resembled not nature, but something older than nature — not an age, but a tone in the creation of the universe.
"Do you think the Light chooses at random? What you saw in your sleep was no dream — it was a whisper from the other side. And you… are closer to it than you think."
The saint gasped in silence, but did not reply.
The old woman said:
"You are of a lineage no longer remembered. But the tree remembers. That's why it opened the path for you."
Then she raised a single finger and pointed at the crack.
"What you see there… is not light. It is vision. But vision does not come to those who look — only to those who are called."
And suddenly — as if the words themselves were an incantation — everything stilled.
All that could be heard was the beat of her heart… then nothing… then a faint voice, as though someone were whispering behind layers of dream:
"You…"
The saint froze.
She turned to the crack, and the light was no longer what it was. It was pulsing — like something alive.
Then she heard from within — not with her ears, but with her spirit:
"The wind seeks an heir… the earth has split… and the shadow spreads."
She rose slowly from the moss, every cell in her body in pain — not from pain, but from a calling.
The old woman said, in a tone that allowed no debate:
"Enter."
"What will I see?"
"Your true face… and the face that awaits you."
She extended her hand — and it was not the hand of an old woman, but a hand not created for age.
The saint walked toward the crack, and with each step, the light engulfed her, as if she were shedding reality. Then she touched the crack… and it opened.
But it did not open like a door — it opened like a memory.
And her heart slipped.
Inside the crack, there was no light… only shadows swimming in green light, as though the world itself were being reshaped. Everything was inverted — the sky beneath her, the earth above, and a voice beyond definition chanting hymns with no language.
And suddenly, she saw it.
The Dark Continent.
Not as a map — but as a living nightmare. A black cloud stretching above a still sea, fractured mountains, and screams not from mouths, but from the stones themselves.
And there — at the heart of the vision — the earth shuddered… not like soil under footsteps, but like the chest of one dying, moments before it splits.
Then the vision advanced… and the balance shifted.
The earth cracked in a soundless scene, as if the world held its breath. From beneath layers of petrified clay and ash, the first black pyramid emerged. It did not rise with force — but like a creature waking from a long, heavy slumber. Its tip appeared first, like a spear piercing the sky, then its full body came into view: a dark structure, so dim even within the vision, it swallowed light without reflecting it.
With the pyramid's appearance, temples arose around it, coiled like serpents around its body — their walls built of deep green stones, engraved with shapes beyond description: heads of animals with human bodies and wings, limbs belonging to no known creature.
The vision advanced again toward one of the largest pyramids… into a hidden chamber deep within its core.
So deep… sealed beneath layers of ancient sigils, bound by black threads, as though night itself had woven them. That chamber — that tomb. And inside it… a body not fully seen, wrapped in a long black ribbon, coiled like a serpent around a small, featureless frame.
And then… they came.
A band of mercenaries—hearts that know only gold, eyes that see only the glimmer. With them were mages, grey ones, loyal to no side, keepers of no oath. Their eyes moved with lust for knowledge, not truth; their hands bore tools of excavation, not keys.
They approached the tomb.
One of the mages lit a green crystal and began muttering fragmented phrases in languages never completed. The air shifted. No one noticed.
Another reached out toward the black ribbon, only to cut it, to uncover what lay beneath.
He sought no soul—only a seal. Something rare to sell. Perhaps a black bone. Or a strange heart preserved within the mummy's body.
But the moment his hand touched the first layer of the ribbon, the unexpected happened.
The pyramid shook.
Not like a tremble—but like a pulse. Then the earth beneath them quaked—not out of rage, but awakening.
The mountain behind the pyramid… was breathing.
It cracked slowly… then exploded.
The first thing to emerge: an eye.
Huge. Black. Shining like a dead mirror.
Then the head rose.
A cobra—its size beyond earthly measure. Its head alone was the size of temples, and its skin looked like living metal, breathing, choking, screaming all at once.
One mercenary screamed—but his voice never reached.
The Cobra struck the earth with her tail. The ground split. The pyramid shattered in half, and the temples were crushed like glass.
The mages didn't try to fight—no time. Some began to draw escape circles, others went mad at the first sight of her eyes—eyes that didn't stare, but drowned.
The Cobra advanced… slithered across the ruins, heading toward the tomb. She wasn't guarding it, nor did she know it… but his awakening had stirred hers.
She struck the mountain's sides with her body. The rocks exploded.
One mage, in a desperate attempt, summoned a black wind to veil himself—but the Cobra swallowed him in a single gulp. She didn't roar… didn't scream… just opened her mouth, and the air trembled, the earth shrank.
In the midst of her slither, as she twisted and crushed mountains, she pressed her chest with immense force and began to rise.
Half her body still underground, the other half stretched into the sky, coiling around nothing… staring.
Staring…
But at what?
Another shadow.
Slowly, it emerged from behind the mountain peaks.
Eight legs. Silent. Raising no dust.
But it moved… steadily.
A spider.
Massive. Silent.
Advancing.
The sky darkened.
Not from clouds—but from something else… a mist thickening from nothingness, oozing from the pores of the rocks.
Then the shadows rose.
Figures without faces—like ghosts of men walking upside down, their arms long, their eyes black.
They didn't speak, didn't scream—but dripped from behind the spider like drops of oil from a broken lamp.
Some knelt.
Some dug into the ground with their claws.
And some stood… and stared.
At the Cobra.
**
The air became unbearable.
As if the world had grown narrow… as if the very air had been pulled away.
Then—without warning—the Cobra twisted and gasped.
A long, deep gasp that passed through every stone in the mountain, echoing in the sky.
And from her mouth…
something came out.
Not fire.
Nor smoke.
Nor poison.
But something black… viscous… like the saliva of a hell with no name.
It shot from her mouth like a hurled spear—ripped the clouds, pierced the mist, and burned in the air before falling far… far away.
It was the meteor.
Not a star. Not a sign. But a thing expelled as she writhed in her madness.
**
Then the darkness deepened.
The Cobra still moved—but she was not alone.
From the sky, sparks began to fall, as if something else—higher—was watching… judging… sending its soldiers in the form of shadows.
And there, behind the spider, a face appeared.
No body—just a face.
As if the mountain itself had been carved to reveal it.
The eyes of that face opened slowly… and within them… a vortex.
Whoever falls into it does not return.
**
The vision cut off abruptly.
No end.
No scream.
No blood.
Just absolute blackness—as if the eyelid had closed, or the soul could take no more.
Then, from a faraway place, a woman's voice—soft, faint—said:
"They should not have come..."
And vanished.
The words were not spoken like ordinary phrases, but slipped through the now-closed crack, as if the tree itself had uttered them—not to be heard, but to be planted.
The saint gasped, her body trembling as if something had left her… or entered. She collapsed to her side, her hands shaking. Her eyelids half-shut, her eyes unfocused… as if she were still seeing, despite the crack having sealed.
The old woman approached slowly, and sat beside her. She did not touch her.
In a low voice, she said:
"You are here… but your other half is still there."
The saint whispered, her lips barely moving:
"I… I didn't understand… what was that?"
"When were visions ever meant to be understood?"
The old woman spoke as one reciting a wisdom passed down for thousands of years, then continued, softer:
"You went where few ever enter… You saw—not what will be—but what is feared to be."
The saint bowed her head, hands in her lap, her breath short and broken.
"Everything was… reversed… and… alive. The pyramid… the Cobra … she was devouring them. As if they weighed nothing. As if they were toys made to be broken."
The old woman nodded, her eyes glinting:
"They were nothing more than flashes… strangers who tampered with the thread, and so the weave trembled. And the Cobra … is but a finger in the hand of wrath."
"The mummy…" said the saint, not quite asking.
"She was not dead," said the old woman, with a chilling calm. "But she was sealed long ago. Time was folded around her. No one was allowed to approach."
"What did you see?" asked the saint, like someone holding their breath.
The old woman smiled—not with joy, but like someone unveiling the face of an ancient tale:
"Me? I saw nothing. I wasn't the one who called the tree… You were the one who entered. You were the one who saw. And what you saw… is not yours to explain yet. It is yours to carry."
The saint raised her eyes to her, trembling, on the verge of tears unspoken.
"To carry it? When I barely understand it? When I can barely breathe after it?"
The old woman placed her hand on her chest, directly over her heart.
"Visions are not understood with the mind… but grasped through the pulse. Everything that was, and all that will be, was there. Your guardian, your foe, and part of you… in every shadow you saw, in every tremor of the earth, something in you was calling."
"But I…" she stopped herself. "…I am just a little saint. I am no light, no heir, no shadow."
The old woman chuckled, a hoarse sound, then whispered:
"Do you think the tree chooses priests? Or kings? Or the wise? No, my daughter… the tree chooses the lost. Those who have yet to find their faces."
She paused, then leaned closer. Her green eyes grew wider than time.
"The tree does not love answers… it loves questions. You are a question, my child… and the answer… is coming."
At this, the saint burst into tears.
Not the weeping of weakness—but the cry of someone who had touched something greater than themselves, older than memory, deeper than fear.
She wept in silence, as the earth weeps when touched by the first drop of rain after a century of drought.
The old woman held her close, saying nothing.
The tree whispered again—but no one heard it.
For night had fallen upon the forest, and silence reigned.
But the saint's heart still beat… with a call not yet complete.