The forest loomed like a cathedral of black bark, its canopy thick enough to swallow sunlight whole. Legends told that the forest was alive in more ways than one; its roots intertwined with the ancient ley lines, and its leaves sang in a language only the wind understood. Peitudas had never believed in such stories, but the map he carried—a torn fragment of parchment inked in a hand that seemed older than any living scribe—pointed unerringly toward its heart.
Following the river upstream, Peitudas arrived at a clearing where the trees formed a perfect circle, their trunks intertwined to create a natural dome. In the center stood a stone altar, ancient and covered in runes that glowed faintly in the moonlight. peitudas cia vol 3
He walked toward his village’s ruins, not to rebuild stone but to plant a new garden of remembrance. Children gathered around as he opened the Codex, reading aloud the names and tales etched in silver light. With each story spoken, a new leaf unfurled on the birch’s branch, floating gently on the wind, finding its way to the hearts of those who listened. The forest loomed like a cathedral of black