Chapter 18: The Opening

They left the town behind—Grimthorn Hollow lost to the Drow. All their friends gone.

Evoker Kalo and Red had only purpose now: Find the Faraway Tree. Seek the missing hobgoblin. Avenge the fallen.

At the edge of the wild heath, where the path forked, a familiar post stood crooked in the mossy earth. Once, a lantern hung there that glowed a soft green—welcoming travelers with warmth and magic.

Now, it burned red.

A sharp, warning red. Like a wound still bleeding.

Kalo stopped beside it. He remembered this place from their last visit, though the air had changed—thicker now, tighter, as if the trees themselves were watching.

“The tree moves,” he said. “But it listens. If we’re meant to find it, we will.”

They pressed on, deeper into the heath.

The woods shifted. Branches leaned inward. Leaves stilled, holding their breath. The dusk deepened, but neither had lit a lamp—somehow the path revealed itself just ahead, step by step.

Then, suddenly, it was there.

A tree, but not a tree.

It rose from the moss like a monument the world had grown around and forgotten. The trunk was vast—wide enough to house a tower—its bark blackened copper, spiraling like smoke trapped in wood. No roots broke the surface. No birds sang. No wind stirred the clearing.

Then the bark began to open.

Not splinter. Not crack. It simply parted—slowly, from the center—spilling a veil of soft blue light across the ground. Inside was only glow, a suggestion of space beyond knowing.

Kalo stepped forward without hesitation.

Red clutched the broom tighter, took a breath, and followed.

Together, they passed into the blue.

And fell.

Chapter 19: The Suspension

For a long, breathless moment— They fell.

No sky. No ground. Just the hush of air and the feeling of dropping through a dream. No screaming—only the sound of cloth, breath, and the faint whir of the broom following after.

Then, slowly… everything began to change.

It wasn’t a landing. It was a slowing. As if gravity had become unsure of itself.

The light shifted—soft blue turning to honey-gold and shadow, as though they were sinking through some syrupy starlit world. Their cloaks fluttered, weightless. The fall became a float. The float became a drift.

And then, feet touched stone.

They stood on a narrow path, no wider than a cartwheel, suspended in nothing. Above and below, infinite darkness. A single lantern hung nearby, affixed to a crooked brass post.

It flickered to life—soft green flame—as if to welcome them.

Kalo inhaled. “We’re inside,” he said.

Red didn’t speak. He was still holding his breath.

They had entered the Faraway Tree.

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Chapter 20: The Shelves That Remember

They walked.

Endless bookshelves stretched above and below, curving through the tree’s vast interior. Some books shimmered. Others whispered. Some looked bound in bark or skin. The smell of old ink, moths, and candle wax filled the air.

The path spiraled gently. Occasionally a staircase would curl upward or downward into black. Strange little alcoves dotted the bark walls: – A hearth burning with web and blue moths. – A cupboard weeping softly in its sleep. – A clock with no hands that ticked backwards.

They passed them all.

Then—one large chamber opened before them. Round as a seedpod. The walls bent inward, carved into the grain of the tree. Shelves wrapped around a crooked table. Cushions. Blankets. Haphazard trinkets and teacups. The smell of mint and old socks.

Windlecrag’s home.

But the hobgoblin was gone.

Not ransacked. Not abandoned. Just… still. Quiet. Empty.

“He should’ve greeted us,” Kalo said, voice low. “He always does.”

Red wandered to a shelf.

A clink.

A small acorn, golden-bronze, rolled from between two old books and landed at Red’s feet.

He bent down and touched it.

The moment his paw made contact, the acorn pulsed once with soft golden light—and grew warm.

“Is that… normal?” Red asked, uncertain.

Kalo stepped closer, watching with care. “No.”

Red lifted it gently. The acorn glimmered—and then, in a heartbeat, it flared. Not dangerously, but deeply. Like memory made visible. On Red’s palm, a faint mark now lingered: a tiny imprint of an acorn, glowing briefly before fading into his fur.

The tree had chosen.

Kalo rested a hand on Red’s shoulder. The acorn shimmered again—and a vision bloomed behind his eyes.

Red—older. Wiser. Cloaked in shadow and light. He stood on a mountaintop, acorn now a staff, his free hand lifted. The old Koopling tongue flowed from his mouth like thunder. Magic cracked through the sky.

Kalo blinked and let go. The vision vanished.

He smiled faintly.

He didn’t speak it aloud. But in his heart, he knew the truth:

He had found his apprentice.

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Chapter 21: The Day That Was a Century

They rested.

One day. Just one. Food came from a cupboard that cooked whatever they hoped for. They curled into the hobgoblin’s cushion-nest, which adjusted around them like a warm memory. No dreams. Just color and breath.

But when Kalo stepped back out onto the shelf-path again—

Something felt wrong.

He touched a creeping vine in the bark. It was cold. Too cold.

He checked the lantern hanging by the door. Its little hourglass, once full of silver sand, was nearly empty.

“How long were we here?” Red asked.

“One day,” Kalo said slowly. Then, “...At least for us.”

They didn’t know. The Faraway Tree did not measure time the same way the world did.

A new path had appeared.

Narrow. Etched into the bark, leading downward where no path had been before. The green lantern floated toward it.

On the wall beside it, scrawled in curling ink, a sign:

“Gone to find the Sands of Time. If I am not back, follow the dark. The Tree listens.” –W.

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Chapter 22: Into the Dark Below

They followed.

The path wound downward. Shelves fell away. The spiral became tighter. Bark pressed close. The lantern dimmed—green turning to blue, then violet, then shadow.

No echoes. No wind. Only the sound of breathing wood.

Red whispered: “Do you think we’re still in the world?”

Kalo didn’t answer.

The walls pulsed—softly, like a heartbeat. Branches brushed their faces like forgotten hands. Fungi glowed faintly where the bark wept sap. The air smelled of root and old rain.

And then Red’s acorn began to glow.

Not brightly. Just enough. A soft, golden halo. It pulsed—guiding them forward. Beckoning.

The bark ahead opened again.

But this time, not into light.

It opened into a space too wide to measure. A space that felt alive, and ancient, and waiting.

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