Three months had passed since the first sacred tree of the Forbidden Forest fell under the shining blade of Mathew's sword. Each morning began with the echo of axes and the hum of magic, as Aeloria's finest mages and warriors flooded into the once-untouched forest. The Paladin Core, led by Mathew himself, spearheaded the campaign—driven not by greed, but by a belief that they were preserving the future.
Despite Duma's quiet disapproval and the warnings etched in the ancient scriptures, the order marched forward, slaying one magical beast after another. With every creature that fell, a new piece of the puzzle revealed itself—fangs with unnatural durability, feathers that shimmered with protective auras, bones that hummed with residual magic.
And then there were the hearts.
Some of the older, more powerful beasts possessed hearts that crystallized upon death, glowing like ethereal gemstones. They pulsed with raw magic—living proof that the forest had harbored more than just life. It had sheltered power older than the kingdom itself.
Wilbaa the Wise, the kingdom's Archmage and the last of the old council, was the first to suggest it.
"These gems," he mused one evening as he held a beast's heart aloft in the firelight, "are not remnants… They are sources. Forges of ancient magic. We can wield them. Enchant blades, reinforce armor, bind spells into steel itself."
Duma stepped forward, voice strained with concern. "Wilbaa… this power was not meant for us. The forest was sacred."
Wilbaa turned slowly, his eyes glowing faintly beneath his hood. "And what good is sacredness if it does not serve its people? Aeloria can no longer depend on old myths and prophecy. If magic can be forged, let us be the ones to shape it."
Mathew stood in silence between them. His armor was tarnished, scratched by countless battles, yet he carried himself with quiet purpose. The weight of command sat heavily on his shoulders, but he nodded to Wilbaa.
"Prepare the forging grounds," Mathew said. "Let's see what this power can become."
⸻
By the second month, the heart-stones had become the center of research. Blacksmiths labored alongside mages in underground chambers carved into the mountain's base. Wilbaa oversaw it all, hunched over runes and inscriptions, eyes gleaming with discovery. Weapons began to emerge—swords that could ignite in flame, spears that struck with the force of thunder.
But the forest grew darker. Angrier.
The deeper they cut, the more unnatural the resistance became. Trees bled sap that shimmered like blood. Animals, once passive, attacked in coordinated groups. Even the wind howled with fury.
Duma visited Mathew one night in his war tent. The air smelled of smoke and rain.
"This forest," Duma whispered, "it is not just dying… It is fighting back."
Mathew, sitting over a map of the region, nodded. "I've felt it too. There's something at the heart of it all. Something… old."
⸻
In the third month, they found it.
A ruined stone temple, half-buried under moss and vines, revealed itself beneath the roots of a toppled tree. Its architecture was unlike anything found in Aeloria—weathered spires shaped like claws, symbols carved into obsidian blocks, a single entrance yawning like the mouth of a beast.
They cleared the vines. Wilbaa stood before the door, fingers trembling with anticipation. "This temple predates our kingdom," he whispered. "Perhaps it even predates magic as we know it."
Mathew raised a hand to halt the mages behind him. "We go in slow. Stay alert."
They descended into darkness.
Inside, carvings danced in the flickering torchlight—stories told in images of gods, beasts, and swirling storms of power. At the center of the temple, a pool of silver liquid pulsed like a living heart. Wilbaa reached toward it with a shaky hand, but Mathew caught his wrist.
"Not yet," Mathew said.
Wilbaa's voice was distant. "Do you feel it? It's calling."
Mathew stared into the pool's reflection, seeing not his face… but something else. Something massive. Watching.
And still, beyond the forest, the ancient roots of the world twisted and whispered—waiting for the blade that might cut too deep.