The Blessings of the Wildwood
Long before Lioren was born, before the Grand Oak grew wide enough to cradle generations beneath its boughs, the Ceremony of the Forest Gift had been practiced with sacred reverence. To the people of Ilyareth, the forest was not merely a place of trees and shadow—it was a living cathedral, ancient and wise, capable of offering blessings far beyond mortal comprehension.
It was said that the forest chose those worthy of its favor.
Each year, on the eve of their tenth birthday, children of the region were guided to the edge of the Enchanted Wood, where the Ceremony took place. But the Ceremony was only the beginning. Once their ribbons appeared—manifesting their affinity, talent, or magical lineage—the true test began: ten days alone in the outer glade, immersed in the forest's magic. During this time, no adults were permitted to intervene. Only children, pure and unshaped by the wider world's ambitions, could walk its paths.
The druids, guardians of the Wildwood, enforced this with absolute discipline. Clad in robes dyed with lichen and crowned in living ivy, they spoke little and watched much. Outsiders were forbidden beyond the sacred grove. Even High Druidess Rowaa herself, though revered and powerful, would not enter the deeper woods beyond the glade. To trespass was to risk awakening old spirits—or worse, disturbing the balance between gift and greed.
The reason for this tradition was both practical and profound. The forest, it was believed, held fragments of the world's origin. Within its tangled corridors, children might stumble upon lost ruins overrun by moss, pools of silver water that whispered in forgotten tongues, or—should fate smile upon them—mythical beasts long thought to be extinct. Taming one of these creatures was rare, but not impossible. The last to do so had become a Wyrm-Sentinel, riding a serpent of moonstone scales and flame-stitched wings.
There were also stories of children finding relics buried beneath root and stone—artifacts from an era so old even the druids spoke of it only in riddles. Some were tools. Some were curses. And some, it was said, held whispers of forgotten continents.
The world itself was vast—far greater than anyone could imagine. Mountains taller than thunderclouds, oceans deeper than prophecy, and lands so distant they had never glimpsed each other. The scale of it was never understood in full, not even by those who shaped magic into knowledge.
One such being, known only as the Architect, once observed this world from a place between breath and dream. They saw pieces of civilization blooming like fireflies in a jar—separated, ignorant of one another, and each believing themselves the center of existence.
To the west, the Architect saw great chimneys stretching into grey skies, and brass machines churning along iron rails. People there had harnessed steam and steel, their cities ticking like clockwork hearts. Magic was not absent—it was bottled, taxed, and feared. Their world was logic-bound, smoke-veiled, and aching for something they could no longer name.
To the east, beyond spiraled storms and unmapped tides, the Architect glimpsed kingdoms draped in velvet twilight. Here, dragons dozed beneath glaciers and courts wove spells into treaties. Castles sprawled over mountains, and wizards etched knowledge into stone with fire-dipped quills. Magic was sacred, unruly, and often cruel.
Yet neither land knew the other.