The pages that remained were few, their parchment fragile and aged beyond its years, yet the words upon them held weight, written in a language long past. And yet, Silas could read them as though he had known them since birth. The ink curled in elegant strokes, the structure archaic, yet clear in meaning.
"Lo, upon the thirteen year, the child of Oralia shall stand before the Sacred Root, and there shall the choice be made. From the seed is life given, and from the child is life returned. This is the covenant, that neither shall walk alone, and both shall be bound in fate."
Silas’s brows furrowed. The Oralians—another people, another tribe? A nation, perhaps? The name was foreign, yet there was a familiarity in how the text spoke of them, as if they were more than just a race, but a culture deeply intertwined with the very fabric of this world. He did not know who they were, what land they called their own, or how they had come to exist. Yet something within the writing unsettled him.
This world, these customs—they were too alien. The symbiosis with plant life, the concept of a numerical system displayed within one’s mind, the ritual of binding—it all felt like something drawn from an elaborate fantasy.
His fingers curled around the brittle parchment as a new, more disturbing thought took root.
What if this was not Earth at all?
He had assumed, even in his confusion, that he had awoken somewhere unknown but still within his world, his reality. But if these Oralians were the inhabitants of this place, if their ways were dictated by something so vastly different from anything he had ever known, then was it possible—had he been transported somewhere else entirely?
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The text continued, revealing glimpses of a ritual that seemed vital to their existence.
"Each Oralian is chosen, and yet, each must choose. Upon the dawn of their birth’s thirteen cycle, the child shall take to the Grove, where the seeds of the earth whisper their silent call. One shall respond, one shall bind, and through the union, both shall know their place in the world."
Silas inhaled sharply, his breath slow and measured. This was more than mere tradition; this was a fundamental truth of their existence. Every Oralian, it seemed, formed a bond with a plant, not as mere caretakers, but as partners. A connection both spiritual and practical.
"And from the bonding, the veil is lifted. The seed shall awaken, and with it, the child shall see. The world laid bare in the form of number and sign, the measure of growth, the path of strength. No Oralian walks blindly; no seedling thrives alone."
He clenched his jaw as the meaning of these words sank in. A numerical system. A way to track their own development, as if existence itself could be measured, displayed, and comprehended in a form he recognized as a HUD—a heads-up display of their progress, their abilities, their growth.
"Yet the seed is not a gift alone; it is a pact of burden and power. From the union, a gift is given, unique to the binding. No two shall wield the same touch, nor shall their paths ever converge as one. For as the root spreads, so too does fate."
A skill, a power, something drawn from the plant itself. Silas frowned, his fingers brushing against the small seed he had taken. If this world followed these rules, then had he—unknowingly—stolen something sacred? What would happen if a seed was bonded outside the Choosing?
"Woe to he who binds in darkness, for the unchosen walk paths unseen, and the root that knows not its soil will bring neither bloom nor bounty."
He exhaled, feeling a chill crawl down his spine. The Choosing of the Seed was not just ceremony. It was law. It was survival. And if this world functioned as the book described, then his place within it had already begun to shift.
Silas turned the page.
But there were no more words. The rest had crumbled into dust.