The Tree sighed—a sound like the world itself exhaling after an age of silence.
Its great trunk shimmered faintly, like the moonlight was being pulled into its bark. Then, with a low hum that sent ripples across the ocean's surface, it spoke again.
"…Very well."
From its roots, something began to rise—slowly, deliberately. The water beneath Riven's feet didn't ripple; it parted, as if afraid to touch what emerged.
A floating platform—woven from starlight, bark, and raw aether—ascended before him. And upon it sat three objects:
A pouch, black velvet, cinched in silver.
A ring, forged of glass-like crystal that flickered with ever-shifting constellations.
And finally… a key, old, jagged, humming with sealed energy, carved with runes in a language that refused to be read.
The World Tree's voice returned—calmer now, but still ancient beyond comprehension.
"These are your payments, mortal merchant of fate," it said. "The pouch holds coin from a time before kingdoms. Currency that any world will value, for its origin is older than commerce itself."
Riven took it, peeked inside.
Gold coins. Each one bore a symbol he couldn't decipher—shifting shapes on the surface like they were alive.
"Okay…" he muttered. "Not bad."
He reached for the ring, slipping it on his finger. It tightened perfectly.
"That ring holds a piece of the sky before the first dawn. It will protect you from illusions… and, should your heart waver, it may show you the truth beneath a thousand lies."
"I like the sound of that," Riven nodded, voice softer this time.
Then he picked up the key.
"And this?"
"That," the Tree whispered, "is the Key to a Vault buried in a realm lost to time. You may not find the door today. Or tomorrow. But one day, when you need it most, the lock will find you."
Riven turned the key in his hand, watching it shimmer like water catching fire.
"…You're surprisingly generous for a tree."
"I once offered only purpose," the Tree replied, "but you reminded me that choice… is a greater gift."
Well then," he said with a grin. "That was weirdly generous for a tree."
The World Tree's massive trunk rumbled faintly—like it was clearing its throat.
"…There is… one thing I must ask of you, Chosen One."
Riven froze.
His smirk curled higher.
"Ah. There it is." He turned slowly to face the tree. "Knew there'd be a catch. So what is it? Am I supposed to water your roots every summer solstice? Prune your leaves with sacred clippers? Hug you every full moon while whispering motivational quotes?"
The World Tree went silent for a long moment, its leaves rustling like it was regretting the entire millennium.
"No," it said at last, trying to sound wise again. "I ask only that you—"
"—become the savior of all realms, sacrifice my childhood, and carry the burden of destiny till I become either god or corpse?" Riven interrupted, dramatically placing the back of his hand to his forehead like a dying theatre actor.
The Tree actually paused. Paused.
"…No. I was going to say: return here one day. That is all."
Riven blinked.
"Oh."He looked a little disappointed."Lame."
The Tree rustled louder now. "I could change the request."
"No no, it's fine," Riven waved it off. "I'll come back. I mean, who wouldn't want to revisit their trauma vacation home?"
The Tree sighed—an actual, emotional sigh.
Riven stepped closer, hand on his chin, grinning devilishly.
"But hey, Old Barky... if I do return someday, what do I get? Another cursed book? A second ring? A free loyalty stamp—buy one fate, get the next one half off?"
The Tree grumbled. "You will gain clarity."
"Ugh. Worst prize ever," Riven muttered. "I was hoping for a sword that eats planets or a unicorn made of fire."
"Young one," the Tree said in a voice dripping with patience worn thin, "you are the first in a million years to survive the Trial. Show some reverence."
Riven shrugged. "You're right. Sorry."
A beat.
Then: "But also— what if I don't come back? What if I just start a bakery?"
The Tree rustled, confused. "A… bakery?"
"Yeah. Bread of Destiny™. Our motto? 'Freshly baked, slightly cursed.' You'd love it."
The Tree's silence this time wasn't ancient. It was baffled.
"…I made a mistake," it murmured, more to itself.
Riven laughed, finally stepping toward the portal. Just before vanishing, he glanced back.
"I'll be back someday. Maybe to save the world. Maybe to prank you. Maybe just to nap under your glowing leaves."
He winked.
"And if you're lucky, I'll bring muffins."
With that, he stepped through.
The portal closed behind him in a swirl of blue and gold—leaving the World Tree standing in stunned silence.
A breeze passed through its leaves like a whisper.
"…Muffins?"
Riven halted mid-step, just before the portal.
The grin faded.
His aura changed.It didn't flare—it sank. Heavy. Controlled. His presence filled the silent realm like thunder wrapped in calm.
He turned slowly to face the World Tree, eyes glowing faintly beneath the pale shimmer of the Blue Moon. The grimoire at his side hummed—faint, like a sleeping beast stirred by memory.
"Hey, old tree," he said, voice low but clear, "enough games."
The tree rustled—but not in response. It was more like it felt the shift in him. A deeper presence. A chosen one no longer playing along.
"Let's get to business," Riven continued. "Now that I've got what I want… tell me what you want."
The silence between them stretched—long, ancient.
"And while you're at it," he added, stepping forward, "tell me why you keep choosing people every ten thousand years… only to watch them die. Why test them like this? Why all the riddles and ink and silence?"
The Tree's voice was slow when it finally came, like stone cracking under pressure.
"…It is not death I choose, young one. It is hope."
Riven narrowed his eyes.
"That sounds like something people say right before they ruin everything."
The leaves stirred above like they remembered countless screams from lives long erased.
"I do not kill them," the Tree said quietly. "The trial does. The void does. They themselves do. Their doubts, their fears, their regrets."
"Then why me?" Riven pressed, fists clenched. "Why now? I'm twelve. I didn't ask for this. You dragged me into hell. I didn't even know there was a trial—I just wanted to sleep. And suddenly, I'm in some void fighting nightmares with my fists."
His voice cracked—but not from weakness. From memory. From seven years of silence carved deep inside him.
"And that man," Riven snapped, pointing at the grimoire. "The one who gave me this book. Who was he? Why did he act like he owned this place before me?"
The Tree hesitated. A breeze passed like a sigh, shaking loose a few silver-blue leaves.
"…He was the only one before you to complete the Trial," it said at last. "Eight thousand years old. Strong enough to survive. Mad enough to laugh."
Riven's brows furrowed.
"And Vaelir? The man I met seven years ago. Who told me myths and scarred my heart. Who vanished in smoke after showing me things I didn't want to see. Who was he?"
A pause.
Then the Tree spoke, with a weight Riven hadn't heard before:
"…Vaelir was once a Chosen too."
Silence.
"But he failed. He escaped half-dead. Mind shattered. Powers stripped. He never spoke to me again."
Riven's breath hitched.
The puzzle pieces twisted and clicked in his mind—but the picture they formed wasn't clear.
The Tree continued.
"Yet he remained… tethered. Wandering the edges of fate. Telling stories. Warning children. Perhaps trying to redeem himself through you."
Riven stood there—still, silent, absorbing.
"Why me," he whispered finally. "Why me. What made me worth choosing?"
And the World Tree—older than time, quieter than death—answered gently:
"Because when the silence entered you seven years ago… you didn't break."
The moon glowed brighter above them.
"You didn't cry. You didn't run. You held it. Carried it. Endured it. You faced what most grown warriors cannot face in their deepest dreams."
A long pause.
"You were already surviving the Trial before it ever began."
Riven closed his eyes.
And said nothing.
The grimoire pulsed at his hip.
The leaves of the World Tree rustled like whispers of memories long past.
Then finally—finally—Riven opened his mouth again.
"…Fine. I'll take the answers for now," he muttered. "But if you lie to me—if this is some trick…"
He looked up, eyes glowing.
"I'll burn this tree down leaf by leaf."
The World Tree didn't reply.
But somehow… it didn't doubt him.