200 — Book 4, Chapter 44 — Past, Present, Future, Pt 2

It had started a very long time ago, during the age of Yggdrasil. In many ways, it was the first sign that something was wrong with the Source of Magic, although no one knew it at the time.

The first sign was when decay began to spread along Yggdrasil's branches.

The effects were difficult to discern, at first. Each branch hosted a realm, but living on a branch did not mean there was wood and bark beneath one's feet. The realms themselves existed upon the branches, and when those branches began to decay, they insulated their people—the realmborn—from Yggdrasil's suffering.

There were signs, however, if one knew how to look. When a branch began to decay, the flow of mana and the stability of the realm would be affected. Spells would fail at inopportune moments, often in ways that felt deliberate.

And people would disappear. That was the biggest sign of it, though at the time the people of the realms were quick to blame the branch titans, parasites of Yggdrasil that occasionally scuttled across the branches and breached their way into the realms. They were known for having strange and esoteric magic, and it was easy to assume that one with the ability to escape all notice was preying upon the realm. What other threat could affect so many realms at once?

So a Grand Hunt was called in order to end this new threat, and it was grand indeed, for mages from the Upper and Lower Branches collaborated to find and end this branch titan.

Only when this great effort failed did those mages begin to consider that something else might be the cause.

They searched in the dungeons first. Perhaps some of them were corrupted, they thought. The dungeons linked the branches of Yggdrasil, after all, allowing artifacts and magic to flow from one branch to the other; if one branch was affected by some foreign magic, then it would spread to all the other branches by way of the dungeons. This had been theorized for some time as a possible threat to the realms, though the leylines were self-cleaning, and so many believed such a spread was impossible. If it had not happened already, it would never happen.

Still, they searched. And they did find that dungeons had changed, in subtle but alarming ways.

They were more dangerous, for one thing. The monsters that emerged from them had magic that had never before been recorded, only its expression was so subtle that it was not yet properly understood or studied. New mana aspects appeared all the time within the dungeons, often the result of some change in the Source, and so no one had taken any real note of it until now.

When they did, they found that this new mana—decay mana, it was dubbed, for its ability to accelerate entropy and turn even the most resilient of stones to dust—had appeared in all dungeons across all the branches of Yggdrasil at around the same time.

This was unheard of. New mana aspects, when they appeared, showed up first on the Lower Branches and then began to filter up to the rest of Yggdrasil. For it to have appeared across all branches at the same time suggested that something was terribly wrong with Yggdrasil itself.

But the mages investigating those disappearances did not want to believe it. Yggdrasil was the World Tree, the miracle upon which they all lived. Though some scholars insisted that they had to study it to determine what had gone wrong, those scholars were considered blasphemous. They were thrown out of the project, left to fend on their own.

The Grand Hunt continued its search. Its mages delved the dungeons of Yggdrasil, taking note of how each one had changed. They noted that sometimes, entire chambers and established routes through each dungeon would simply vanish along with anything inside them. This, they decided, was the cause of the disappearances; those that vanished must have been inside those chambers at the time.

There were protests to the contrary. It could not be, many of the lesser mages of the Upper Branches argued; too many had disappeared for the cause to be the dungeons alone. There were children in that group, non-mages and farmers and townsfolk who would never once step foot within the dungeons. How could the dungeons be the cause of all those disappearances?

Yet the leaders of the Grand Hunt, a council of mages from the Lower Branches, insisted that the Hunt was concluded. They knew the cause, they declared, and it was merely a shift in the branches of Yggdrasil. A natural event. The disappearances would stop now, that they knew to avoid the crumbling passages of the dungeons.

They handed out new spells that could map the changes in the dungeons, marking chambers that were at risk of dimensional collapse. And just as the scholars that insisted on studying Yggdrasil were banished, so too were the ones that protested abandoning the Hunt, the ones that insisted that the structural decay of the dungeons was a symptom and not the cause.

The disappearances continued, of course, lesser now but still prevalent throughout the branches and realms. The council of the Grand Hunt insisted that everything was fine—that each disappearance was only the result of mages refusing to follow their new protocols or casting their new spells incorrectly. The non-mage townsfolk that vanished, they claimed, were simply people that wandered into the dungeons on their own, heedless of the dangers.

Perhaps this was the first sign that the Lower Branches had been compromised, but few considered the possibility, at the time. They assumed instead that the mages that had been appointed for the Hunt were simply ill-fitted for the job and had been granted it only through a more clandestine form of corruption. Nepotism, perhaps. The leaders of the Grand Hunt were more concerned with declaring they had succeeded than in truly solving the problem.

Thankfully, the scholars exiled from the Hunt did not simply sit idly by. What self-respecting mage would? The first group believed that something was wrong with Yggdrasil, and that only by investigating the sacred tree itself would they learn the cause of the disappearances. They had already begun their research when the second group of mages joined them, now convinced that they had been right.

This secondary group called themselves Scholars of the Green, and while the mages that remained in the Grand Hunt squabbled and bickered, the Scholars set to work.

It was the Scholars that built the first worldships, allowing mages to travel from one branch to another without relying on the portal magic predominantly controlled by the Lower Branches. It was the Scholars that invented cambiumscopes, a device that allowed one to peer past the layers of the realms to the branches beneath.

All the while, the realms descended further into chaos. Many demanded answers from the mages of the Grand Hunt, who themselves attempted to disappear to avoid scrutiny. The leaders locked themselves away, refusing to respond to letters magical or mundane, and the Lower Branches supported them in the matter, hiding them away when others insisted on a response.

They did not unveil them again until a new discovery forced it out of them: the towns, cities, and kingdoms of the branches were shrinking.

Unlike the crumbling of the dungeons, the changes to the realms had not been noticeable. Every missing home and street erased the memories of them as well. To the people of the realms, their towns and cities had always been that small. Perhaps many had an inkling that something was wrong—that their missing friends and family could not have lived in a town that small, that their homes had disappeared with them—but they found themselves unable to acknowledge the discrepancy.

It was a mercy, perhaps, that they were allowed to remember those that vanished. That was what pushed them to demand answers from the Grand Hunt, to roar at the locked doors of the Lower Realms until the leaders of the Hunt were expelled, forced to stammer through another false explanation that no one would believe. It was clear, then, that the Grand Hunt had failed. That it had been commanded by fools who wanted only recognition for their deeds and cared nothing for the people that were disappearing.

As the realms began to despair, the Scholars of the Green stepped forth, and revealed that they had uncovered the cause. They explained that decay had begun to rot Yggdrasil's branches from within, and that was what caused the disappearances. This was no natural shift of the World Tree.

In the age of Yggdrasil, the leylines were carried within the World Tree itself, a network of mana within its roots and trunks and branches that kept the realms fed with power. The sacred tree absorbed many of the plagues and infectious magics that would otherwise spread through the realms. Somehow, its great magic turned that deadly power into nutrition that kept it fed and healthy.

Yet in all that time, Yggdrasil had not encountered decay. For the first time, a mana aspect had formed that the great tree had no natural defense against. A mana aspect that it was, in fact, naturally weak against. Yggdrasil had been created as an ageless, eternal thing, and now it understood what it was to age; it was immortal, and now it understood mortality.

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And with that understanding, it began to die.

The knowledge of mortality and limitation was itself a kind of sickness for the great tree. Yggdrasil was endless and boundless and held all the realms, but in decay it understood that such things were not possible—that there was no such thing as infinity and endlessness, and that all things were bound to end. The paradox killed it slowly from within, eating away at its life and heart.

The Scholars told the realms not to despair, however, for they would find a solution to the rot.

They began by calling upon the Source of Vitality, the pillar of all life within the realms. The Scholars sang a great ritual upon the highest branch they could reach, gathered together on the biggest worldship they could craft, and they called out until the Law of Life himself descended upon them.

But not even the Source of Vitality could restore the sacred tree. The life magic it held was different from the life magic he commanded. His magic was the magic of life within the realms, but Yggdrasil was life without. Its life was the existence of the realms, and Vitality did not command Existence.

He thought on the matter, however, and spoke with the many minds on that worldship. They did this for fourteen days and fourteen nights, discussing and discarding solutions, until the Source of Vitality finally declared that he had an answer.

He could not restore the World Tree, but he could teach it to understand the paradox of life: that it could be both wonderfully infinite and painfully finite; that it could stretch endlessly through time and yet be cut ruthlessly short; that decay was an end, but could also be a beginning. That it was needed, even, to make space for something new.

Unlike the Monoliths, however, Yggdrasil could not be spoken to. It could not be summoned or called upon or told that there were others that understood its plight. To speak to it, the Source of Vitality would have to carve a new mana aspect into the Source and allow it to filter into the World Tree's branches.

And so that was what the Source of Vitality did. From his heart he plucked a single string of flesh, and that flesh he lit with the fires of his magic until it burned with an emerald flame. That flame he cast down into the roots of Yggdasil, where they curled around the Source of Magic.

The Source of Magic shuddered at the contact. It lit up for a moment, pulsing green fire, then swelled as it took in this new form of mana.

All mages in all the worlds felt it at once as the entire Web shifted. The Source of Vitality had forged a Pillar Aspect. He called it the Verdant Flame, and it was an aspect of mana so great that all links between the different aspects shifted and rearranged themselves to accommodate for it.

For some, the presence of the Verdant Flame made mana attunements even more difficult, for they could not wield the Flame themselves and had to string new attunements together to make it work. For others, the Web's restructuring had made attuning their mana easier. There was chaos in the branches for a very long time, as a result of Vitality's actions, and many of the other Monoliths cursed him for it.

But it worked. Yggdrasil drew the Verdant Flame through its leylines and into the branches, and as it did, the decay flaked away from its branches. The cambiumscopes showed the branches healing, and the disappearances stopped.

The crisis, however, was not yet over.

As a Pillar Aspect, the Verdant Flame existed within the Source of Magic. Where other aspects were merely representative constructs within the Web, the Verdant Flame burned within it. There was a risk there—should the flame ever be extinguished, it was possible the rot would come right back, overwhelming Yggdrasil in an instant.

This was a problem, but it was a problem there was time to solve. For years, the Source of Vitality wandered the branches in his lesser forms, in part looking for inspiration and in part to escape the judgement of the other Monoliths, many of whom despised the chaos his new aspect had caused.

It was during this time of wandering that Vital met Cale Cadwell Cobbs for the first time. The details of that encounter were not important, but it was only after that chance meeting that Vital understood what the Verdant Flame needed.

It needed guardians.

The Verdant Flame was an embodiment of the cycle of life and death. It was the paradox of it—both an understanding of decay and entropy and a fervent love for the life that could be born from it. It had to be fed by guardians from every realm, across every branch, because only then could the Flame truly represent what mortality was like for all of Yggdrasil.

Dreadshades were most certainly not the name that the Source of Vitality would have chosen for his guardians, but the very first dreadshade he forged had suggested the name herself. When he asked her why, she laughed.

"All of life dreads death and decay," she said. "That's a part of what it means to be alive. I mean, unless you're immortal, I guess, but most immortals are just ageless; they still die eventually. And then they decay, just like the rest of us."

She was silent for a moment. "You made us as decay elementals," she said. "But we're not just decay elementals. There's a reason people see their loved ones when they look too closely at our flesh. We're a reminder that everything is finite; that everything ends. Don't look at me like that! I know you don't like endings. You probably didn't do this on purpose."

"I did not," the Source of Vitality grumbled, wondering why he was being scolded by his own creation.

"Well, look, if you ever find a way to solve death and entropy forever, I'll be all for it," she told him. "There's beauty in the infinite, just as there is in the finite. But right now, the finite is the only option we've got. Might as well appreciate it."

"By dreading it," the Source of Vitality said dubiously.

"By dreading it," his daughter said with a sharp grin. "A little bit of fear is good for everyone. People need to appreciate what they've got. And in the meantime, we'll keep your Verdant Flame fueled and burning bright. You know, I think it might be the most mortal thing you've ever created."

"How do you mean?" Vitality frowned, puzzled.

"You're the closest thing that exists to something ageless, unkillable, and immortal," she said. "But the Verdant Flame is basically your legacy. It's a piece of you that'll live on forever, lighting the realms, just as long as we keep fueling it. I mean, you'll live on too, so it's not like that's going to matter much... but it's kind of poetic, don't you think?"

"I suppose," Vitality said, though he agreed mostly for the sake of it. He hadn't truly understood what she meant, at the time.

Now he did. Dreadshades and the Verdant Flame were both his legacies, and they would continue on long after this final remnant of his mind faded and died. In that way, he supposed, he would always be with Cale.

The thought of it was strangely comforting.

Damien was silent for a long time, after Vital told his story. He looked up at the Monolith, searching his expression, then finally spoke, though the words were hesitant. "Thank you for telling me that," he said quietly.

"Thank you for the opportunity to relive those memories." Vital bowed his head. "You understand now, why you should not hate what you are?"

Damien managed a weak, wet-sounding laugh. "Well, I can't just turn it off, but I understand what I am a little better now, I think. It's... I don't know. My feelings about it are all jumbled. It'll probably take me some time to untangle them."

"You may take all the time you need," Vital said.

"You created our species," Damien said, looking up at Vital. "It's strange to think about. That I might have anything to do with a Monolith, I mean."

"Not so strange." Vital chuckled. "Many species were born from the whims of a Monolith. The karmic web is far tighter than most realize. We are all connected, in truth. Dig deep enough into any mage, and you will find a connection to a great power."

"What about Cale?" Damien asked. "How's he connected to... well, everything?"

"You are worried about him." There was a note of understanding and approval in Vital's voice. "I do not know, alas. He is more greatly connected to the realms than perhaps even he realizes. There are many secrets he keeps, even from himself."

"Don't I know it," Damien muttered, sighing. He sat cross-legged on the ground, then lit an ember of Verdant Flame between his hands, watching as it danced merrily in his lap. The Source of Vitality moved to sit beside him, hovering almost protectively. "I wish I knew what happened to my dad or why I don't remember him."

"Is that what keeps you from unlocking more of my Legacy?" Vital asked. "Your father?"

"No," Damien said. He gave Vital a small half-smile. "You actually solved that for me already. It was... I guess it was the nature of what I am, compared to what I want to be. I've always thought it was in conflict, but based on what you're telling me, it never was. Dreadshades were created to help preserve Yggdrasil. We might not be needed anymore now that Yggdrasil is gone, but it helps, knowing that we're not just an embodiment of the end."

"Do not be so certain you are not needed," Vital said gently. "The Flame would be long extinguished if not for you and yours, and it may well be important yet."

Damien nodded. "I know," he said, his gaze flickering to Vital. When he spoke again, it was with a confidence that surprised even himself. "More than you do, maybe."

"...What?" Vital's flames flickered erratically.

"Just... hold on a moment," Damien said. He glanced at Cale, still sulking somewhere nearby; he held the Verdant Flame in his palms, breathing deep.

Vital's heart had been destroyed by a spear made to kill even Monoliths.

But a long, long time ago, he had forged the Verdant Flame from a piece of his own heart. Perhaps it was still there, lurking within the flame.

Perhaps he could call it back. After all, both he and the Flame were a legacy of the Source of Vitality.

And though a part of him was doing this for Cale, another part of him felt, more fiercely than anything else, that the Great Realms needed to heal. So much was gone from it because the Source of Vitality was dead, including its healing magic.

Damien didn't know if this would be a start, or if it would even work. But he knew he had to try.