Chapter I: The Dreaming Roots

Tonight, the forest whispered in ways it has not since before the Shattering. Sleep came fitful and deep, tangled in roots of memory and prophecy. My antlers brushed the moonlit rafters of Thornhall Grove as I tossed, visions gnawing at my mind. I saw the Great Ley, once a river of green fire beneath Galdrowen’s roots, now splintered—shards of its power twisting the land wild. In the dream, a Grove-Wyrm of impossible age—Elder-Green—rose from beneath a weeping willow. Its eyes were lanterns, emerald and ancient, and its scales shimmered with the memory of a world before fracture. It spoke, not in words but in the rustle of leaves and pulse of sap: *The seed that mends lies hidden in the Corrupted Glade. One must go alone. Heart clear, purpose true.* I awoke with dawn’s dew in my fur, heart thrumming. The Elders would debate, as always, but prophecy’s call is not for the council table. —

Chapter II: The Circle’s Dissent

At sunrise, I summoned the Verdant Circle beneath the Spiral Oak. Nuala drifted in on the morning mist, eyes full of far-off dreams. Brannok lumbered close, paws muddy from a night’s patrol. Even Thistlebrand, usually invisible when order is called, sat cross-legged in a patch of bluebells, grinning at some private jest. I spoke of my vision and the Grove-Wyrm’s summons. “The Corrupted Glade festers. Elder-Green awaits. The prophecy says one must go alone.” Brannok’s deep voice rumbled, “Let me come. The glade is thick with Thornspines, and Duskfall’s vine-crests stalk the border. We cannot risk you, Fen.” Nuala’s voice was wind in leaves. “The dream was clear. Only the Archdruid’s purpose can open the way. Yet, beware—the glade’s heart will test the soul.” Thistlebrand, ever irreverent, plucked a dandelion and blew its seeds into the air. “Prophecies are like mushrooms, Fen—some feed you, some poison you, some make you see dragons in the clouds.” But I am old enough to know when the forest calls. After much argument (and a thrown acorn or two), I took up my staff. “Guard the Circle. If I do not return by the seventh dusk, let the roots reclaim me.” —

Chapter III: Into the Tangled Wild

I traveled alone, staff in hand, through the ancient wildwood. The ley lines here were warped; sunlight broke in odd patterns, and the air shimmered with wild magic. Every step felt like trespassing in my own land. Grove-Wyrms—so rare, so sacred—remained hidden, but twice I glimpsed their trail: great gouges in the earth where roots had grown impossibly fast, and the scent of fresh sap so thick it made me ache with longing. Yet, not all was hope. The Thornspines, medium-sized dragons with poisonous barbs and tempers sharpened by the Shattering’s chaos, prowled the shadowed undergrowth. I felt their gaze, hungry and suspicious, but my presence—marked by the Circle’s emerald spiral—kept them at bay. The closer I drew to the Corrupted Glade, the more the forest soured. Timber twisted into grotesque shapes; flowers oozed sap black as pitch. I pressed on, haunted by the prophecy’s warning: *One must go alone.* —

Chapter IV: The Heart of Corruption

By the third dusk, I reached the Corrupted Glade. Here, the ley lines bled visible light—veins of sickly green and purple curling in the air like smoke. The trees stood gnarled and hollow-eyed, weeping resin that sizzled on the ground. A Thornspine, scales mottled with violet rot, watched from atop a shattered stump. Its eyes held no malice, only exhaustion. I raised my staff in greeting, murmured the old words of truce, and it slunk away into the shadows. The center of the glade was a wound: a pit where an ancient ley-nexus had once pulsed with life. Now, it was clogged with black vines, their thorns glistening with venom. At the pit’s edge lay a stone altar, overgrown but unmistakably ancient. I knelt, heart pounding, and pressed my palm to the altar’s mossy surface. The vision returned—Elder-Green’s gaze, and the words: *Plant the seed that mends, but first, cleanse the wound.* —

Chapter V: The Poisoned Seed

From the pouch at my belt I drew the object of the vision: a single seed, luminous and warm, spiraled with living green. It had been given to me by Nuala seasons ago—a relic from the untouched heart of the Grove-Wyrms’ lair. But the wound could not be healed while rot remained. I began the Rite of the Verdant Circle, voice raised in ancient chant. The ground trembled as the ley lines responded, but so too did the corruption—the black vines writhed, lashing at my ankles, seeking to choke the song from my throat. Venom bit into my fur. Pain lanced through me. I faltered, but remembered the prophecy: *Heart clear, purpose true.* I let the forest fill me—its pain, its resilience, its memory of green. A sudden surge of energy—raw, wild, and terrifying—burst from the earth. The vines shriveled, their poison burning away in emerald fire. In the silence that followed, I pressed the seed into the cleansed soil. —

Chapter VI: Elder-Green’s Awakening

The leyline pulsed beneath my hand, and the seed took root. From the earth, a great shape coiled upward—bark and scale, leaf and claw—until Elder-Green stood before me, resplendent and immense. Its breath was the scent of rain and blooming things. “You have done what many feared—facing the wound alone,” it spoke, through the chorus of rustling branches. I bowed my antlered head. “Galdrowen’s heart cannot survive on division. The Circle debates—contain or cleanse—but the forest calls for healing.” Elder-Green’s tail swept the glade, and wherever it touched, new growth sprang: ferns, wildflowers, saplings. “Your courage has rekindled the primal bond. But healing is not the end. The Circle must choose—fear or trust, stagnation or wild renewal.” It touched my chest with a talon, and a rush of memory—of the forest whole, before the Shattering—filled me. Then Elder-Green vanished, dissolving into a spiral of glowing leaves, its task begun. —

Chapter VII: Return to Thornhall

I limped home beneath a sky bright with new stars. The wild magic had scoured me, but I felt lighter—no longer alone with the prophecy’s burden. The Circle met me at the edge of Thornhall Grove. Nuala’s eyes shimmered with joy. Brannok, ever gruff, hugged me with a bear’s gentleness. Even Thistlebrand, for once, had no quip. I told them what I had seen—the cleansing, the Grove-Wyrm’s awakening, the choice that remained. Debate, for once, was brief. The seeds of renewal had already taken root; the Circle would follow the path of wild healing, not fearful containment. From the Corrupted Glade, a new pulse of green rose each dawn—a sign to all of Galdrowen that the primal heart could mend, if only we dared to trust in its wildness. —

Chapter VIII: The Prophecy Fulfilled

In the days that followed, word spread through the wildwood. The Thornspines, once maddened by leyline chaos, grew calmer, their venom lessened. Grove-Wyrms were glimpsed more often—silent, solemn, but watchful. Even the ancient trees, warped by the Shattering, began to straighten and bloom. The border remains troubled—Duskfall’s vine-crests still hunger for leyline shards, and not all wounds heal at once. But the Verdant Circle stands united, and hope flourishes in the shadows. I write this so that those who come after may know: prophecy is not fate, but invitation. The wild does not promise safety, only possibility. In healing the forest, we heal ourselves. May the roots grow deep, and the Circle endure.

—Fen Mossbark, Archdruid of Thornhall, Verdant Circle

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