My world-tree system-Chapter 100 - 99: Finding a name

Twilight bathed Vollua in a warm, golden light. The rays filtering through the canopy drew shifting patterns on the mossy ground, as if the forest itself were dancing to celebrate an upcoming event. In the large central clearing at the foot of the Mother Tree, the last thirty elves of the World Tree people had gathered at Foster’s call.

The atmosphere was one of solemnity, but there was already a flicker of curiosity in the air. Whispers had been rife since the last ritual, and everyone suspected the reason for this unusual convocation.

Foster stood on a wide, raised root, like a natural promontory. He wore his ceremonial tunic, simple but marked with the ancient symbols of Vollua. To his right, Orëlas stood carrying the newborn baby in his arms, wrapped in a silk cloth woven by the druids.

Foster raised his hand to call for silence.

- Brothers. Sisters. You who are the last witnesses to our people. Today, I present to you... the new child born of the Mother Tree, of our ritual, of our union.

A murmur ran through the assembly. Everyone straightened up a little, eyes shining with anticipation.

Orëlas stepped forward gently, lifting the child above him so that all could see her. She opened her eyes at once, wide, bright and disturbingly violet. A glint of pure mischief already shone in them.

- She’s so... awake," murmured a silver-haired elf.

- And so young," added another.

But before anyone could ask another question, the little girl held out her chubby hands to the assembly.

And the magic began.

Golden, vibrant filaments of light swirled from her. A dozen elves were suddenly lifted from the ground with a joyous sizzle, their legs dangling, some uttering surprised cries.

- EH! Hey! I’m... I’m floating!" cried a thin-bearded elf.

- It’s not natural!" moaned another, her arms flailing in the air.

Foster sighed deeply, his palm sliding slowly over his face.

- By the sacred roots of Vollua... here we go again.

Orëlas burst out laughing. He hugged the little girl to him with a big smile.

- You never stop, do you? What a little brat! That’s just like you.

The little girl chirped more and more, laughing out loud, unable to stop. Her joy echoed through the clearing like silver chimes. The elves, though a little disoriented, began to smile in spite of themselves.

- She’s... laughing!" one of them remarked. But she doesn’t seem to know how to control her magic yet...

- Or doesn’t care at all," corrected another, straightening up after being released onto a soft root.

- She has impressive power," murmured Lïanna, appearing at the edge of the clearing. And a will of her own, far more assertive than Orëlas’ at birth.

Foster nodded.

- She’s like spring after a painful winter. A promise. And walking chaos.

A general laugh gently shook the group.

Foster climbed down from the root and approached Orëlas, who was gently stroking the little girl’s hair.

- But she needs a name.

The circle closed a little, the elves forming a ring of presence around the stage, some still dishevelled from their involuntary flight. Discussions began to flow softly, half-voiced.

- Something that symbolizes hope," said a soft-featured elf. We’ve lost so much, but... it represents renewal. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

- Yes, but also something that evokes her mischief, her light, her laughter," added Köflik, who was still rubbing his shoulder with a grimace. A name that carries joy in its wake, but that jostles you when you least expect it.

- An old name... or a new name?" asked another elf.

The debate continued for a few moments, until one of the older members of the group, an ashen-haired elf named Vaelar, slowly raised his hand.

- There was a name... in the old archives. A name whispered during the last Great Renaissance... "Iléanë". Iléanë". It means "she who carries the laughing light" in the ancient sylvan dialect.

A respectful silence followed.

Foster turned to Orëlas.

- Iléanë... what do you say?

Orëlas looked at the little girl. She chirped once more and pulled a lock of hair with radiant joy. He smiled.

- It suited her perfectly.

- So be it," declared Foster, turning to the assembly. Let all here bear witness. This is Iléanë, second child of the Mother Tree. Born of magic, nurtured by love, and the bearer of a future we’ve only just begun to understand.

In the sticky depths of the ravaged ancient dwarf city, beneath the smoking remains of the statues of the ancient kings, Joker stood erect, hands behind his back, a smile slipped across his face like a sharpened scalpel. He watched King Thorgrim, chained to an obsidian pillar, his gaze deadened but his jaw clenched, frozen in raging muteness.

- You know... you’re the most tragic puppet I’ve ever had under my fingers," Joker breathed, his boots clacking softly on the cracked floor as he circled the old king. A king... reduced to being a monster’s surprise box. Magnificent, isn’t it?

Thorgrim didn’t answer. He wasn’t really allowed to speak anymore. Inside him, the mark lived on. It had taken root in his mind like a poisonous weed, colonized every nook and cranny of his flesh and soul. He could feel his muscles moving without meaning to, hear his own voice lying sometimes without his having given the order.

But today...

Today, the brand would receive a new order.

Joker reached out and placed two fingers on the King’s temple. A small touch. A whisper of black magic.

- Here, little thing... listen to me. You’re going to go to Vollua, find your good old friend Foster, whine for your people and kneel like a broken relic. You’ll slither your way to the Mother Tree, like a well-trained larva, and once you’re within range... BOOM. But not too fast, okay? We need to have a little fun before the big party.

In Thorgrim’s body, the mark vibrates.

It was a parasite. An artificial consciousness, docile but implacable, like a child too well-behaved... or a dog trained to kill. It had no remorse, no will. Just orders to carry out.

And she integrated them immediately.- You know... you’re the most tragic puppet I’ve ever had under my fingers," Joker breathed, his boots clacking softly on the cracked floor as he circled the old king. A king... reduced to being a monster’s surprise box. Magnificent, isn’t it?

Thorgrim screamed inwardly. He tried to struggle, to scream, to resist. But nothing came out. His body was empty armor. A well-oiled puppet.

Joker took a step back, satisfied.

- Good. Now run, my king. The people await you.

The journey to Vollua was a constant mental assault.

Thorgrim walked alone, draped in a cloak of dust, his features drawn, his face marked by suffering... but it was all a perfect mask. His feet followed the road, his hands trembled just right. Every sigh, every pleading look to the sky, every grunt, was calculated by the mark.

When he saw Vollua’s protective roots in the distance, a wave of real despair washed over him. But his face showed feigned relief, a sad joy that covered a cold mechanic.

- Vollua..." he breathed with perfect accuracy in his voice.

Foster was the first to greet him. He came running, alerted by the sentries, followed by Lïanna and Köflik. When he saw Thorgrim, limping, eyes watering, one hand on his chest, he rushed over.

- Through the woods... Thorgrim?! Are you alive?!

The king dropped to his knees before him, panting like a man who had just escaped from hell.

- Vollua... I... I ran, Foster. I ran like a coward. My people... they’re still prisoners.

Foster bent down and gently lifted him to his feet. Lïanna also approached, placing a gentle hand on the king’s arm.

- What happened?" she asked.

The king - or rather, the king’s puppet - looked down, his face in ruins.

- They forced me to watch. To hear. Every scream. Every complaint. And there was nothing I could do. So I left. I crawled through the tunnels, walked for days... begging for you.

He raised wet eyes to Foster.

- Help me. Help them. You’re... our last hope. If I can talk to the Mother Tree... maybe... maybe we can establish a bond, a communion. A peace.

Foster exchanged a look with Lïanna. He had no reason to be suspicious. No trace of dark magic, no apparent lies.

Köflik, on the other hand, frowned slightly.

- Are you sure he’s all right? He looks like he’s been sleeping in the bowels of the world for a century...

Thorgrim turned his head towards him, his voice breaking perfectly.

- I haven’t slept a wink since my brothers died. And I won’t sleep until there’s a single dwarf left to save.

Foster laid a hand on his shoulder.

- This is your home, Thorgrim. You can talk to Lïanna whenever you like.

Köflik watched the scene, arms folded, a worried wrinkle marking his forehead.

Everyone around him seemed relieved that the dwarf king had returned. Lïanna, serene. Foster, almost moved. Even the most wary elves had taken a step back, reassured by the old sovereign’s apparent vulnerability.

But he...

He didn’t feel that way.

There was something strange in Thorgrim’s gestures. Not in his words - no, they were perfect, too perfect - but in the way he said them. As if his body spoke a different language from his soul. As if, beneath every trembling, every aching breath, something too fluid, too... controlled, was wrong.

Köflik squinted.