Chapter Twenty-Five:

"Whispers in the Roots"

The road to Oakspire wound through the ancient forest like a river of packed earth and luminous stone, veins of soft blue light threading through the path beneath their carriage wheels. The trees here weren’t just trees, they were monuments, vast and knowing, their canopies woven together so thickly that the fading sun could only slip through in fractured rays. Emily couldn't see beyond the dense foliage, but she felt the city ahead.

And she wasn’t the only one.

Ahead, faint echoes drifted through the trees, distant cheers carried on the breeze, the low sound of a gathered crowd awaiting something… someone.

Golden light filtered through the branches as the wind stirred the leaves. The scent of burning incense merged with the sharp tang of magic, woven into the damp earth and aged bark.

“I am General Aldric Varos,” he said at last, his voice a low rumble over the rhythmic clatter of wheels. "The people of Eldoria have been waiting a long time for you." Despite the thick bandages around his leg, he sat straight, his golden armor catching glimpses of sunlight through the canopy. He hadn’t spoken much during the journey, but now, there was something different in his tone. A weight, an understanding.

Emily studied him, still uncertain of the man himself.

“What exactly have they been waiting for?” she asked, adjusting the bow slung across her back.

The General’s gaze shifted toward her, weighing the question. “For all of you.”

A chill curled down her spine.

The young Player beside her leaned forward slightly, his gaze glinting with amusement. "Forgive me, I should introduce myself," he said smoothly. "Rendall Banner." He extended a hand towards Emily. "And you, General, you look as if you've seen a ghost."

General Aldric Varos regarded him for a long moment before shifting forward and, with deliberate reverence, bowed his head. "Rendall Banner, Eldoria has awaited your arrival. The weight of prophecy and expectation rests upon you... upon you all. The whole city is gathered in your honor,” he said, his tone measured. “In all your honor. The prophesized Players have at long last come to save our Realm.”

Emily held her silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something shift in Rendall's face, just for an instant, a flicker of something that wasn't quite human. But when she looked directly at him, it was gone. Impossible... right? His expression remained calm, calculated, as if he knew something she didn't. Something about him unsettled her.

The road sloped upward. The forest gave way.

Oakspire did not merely rise from the forest, it was the forest.

A great tree loomed over the horizon, its titanic branches stretching skyward, ancient and unshaken.

At its base, the city stretched outward in layered districts, each built within the arms of colossal trees that paled in comparison to the one at its heart. Roads of polished stone wound between them, suspended bridges of carved wood and enchanted vines spanning rivers that shimmered with bioluminescent life.

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And above it all, Oakspire’s branches bore cities of their own, glowing like constellations, suspended in a dance of magic and ancient wood.

Emily tensed, her pulse quickening. For a moment, she felt adrift, stepping into a legend far older than herself.

What did these people expect from them? From her? The weight of prophecy pressed against her, the enormity of it made her feel small, not in weakness, but in the weight of something greater than herself. This place was old. Older than anything she had ever known. And it had been waiting for them. For her.

The cheers swelled. A hum of magic ran through the air, brushing against her skin like static before a storm. This was not just a welcome. It was a summoning.

The General exhaled slowly, as if the moment settled onto his shoulders. “Welcome,” he said. “To the heart of Eldoria.”

The carriage rolled into the first district of Oakspire, and the celebration roared to life around them.

Magic wove through the air, pulsing in harmony with the rising voices of the crowd.

Lanterns of shifting light drifted above the streets. The people, Elves, Dwarves, Whisperkin, Nekomijin, and more, pressed close, their voices rising in a chorus of exultation. Some reached toward the carriage, others bowed their heads in respect, and all of them bore the expressions of those who had waited a lifetime for this moment.

The arrival of the prophesized Players.

Emily’s grip tightened on her bow, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs. The weight of the expectation pressed into her chest, heavier than the air thick with incense and magic. She could feel their eyes on her, on all of them. Watching. Hoping.

Rendall’s voice cut through the noise, steady, unreadable. "Quite the welcome."

The carriage eased to a stop.

A grand archway rose before them, its spires draped in enchanted banners that glowed with shifting script, words in languages Emily could not decipher.

The air hummed with anticipation, a presence unseen yet undeniable.

Beneath the arch, robed figures stood motionless, their faces concealed behind masks of ancient wood, each carved into the likeness of a celestial being.

As the procession came to a halt, one of the robed figures stepped forward. Their voice rang out, amplified by unseen magic, echoing through the streets and silencing the crowd.

"We welcome you, chosen ones, to the sacred heart of Eldoria. Your arrival was foretold in the songs of old, written in the stars, and woven into the very roots of Oakspire. May you step forward and embrace the path set before you."

The words sent a shiver through Emily.

The General’s fingers twitched near the pommel of his sword, an instinct he seemed to battle against, his grip hovering but never fully committing. Emily wasn’t sure if he even realized he had done it.

Rendall’s smile remained, but something in his gaze sharpened, as if he, too, was assessing something unseen. "Well then," he said, tilting his head slightly, his voice smooth but edged with amusement. "Shall we?"

The moment Emily stepped from the carriage, the Realm seemed to thrum with that unseen energy. Emily could feel it. Watching her. Waiting.

The celebration did not cease, but the tone changed, no longer the raw, unrestrained joy of a festival, but something measured, waiting.

The masked figures did not move at first. The enchantments woven into their celestial carvings pulsed with faint luminescence, catching the twilight glow in shifting constellations. Then, as one, they lifted their arms, palms facing outward in an unmistakable gesture of solemnity.

Emily barely had a moment to take it in before the General moved beside her, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. She could feel the shift in him, the tightening of a soldier’s discipline, the kind that preceded battle, not celebration.

Rendall descended with ease, his boots touching the stone with a confidence that belonged to someone who had already felt at home. He glanced toward the masked figures, his lips parting in the faintest smirk, as though he found something amusing in their solemnity.

The lead figure spoke again, their voice layered with arcane resonance. “You arrive not as mere travelers, but as those who walk the path foretold. The roots of Oakspire have whispered of your coming, and the stars themselves bent to mark this day.”

Emily’s stomach knotted. Their words wrapped around her like chains she had never chosen.

The General stepped forward then, his head bowing slightly, not in submission, but in acknowledgment. “We stand before you, as fate has decreed,” he intoned. His voice carried the same steady control as before, but Emily caught the faintest waver beneath it. Something close to reluctance.

The masked figure inclined their head and swept an arm toward the towering doors. “Step forward, and know.”

Emily inhaled slowly, then stepped forward into the unknown.