The main trunk of Valorwood pierced into the sky like an organic pillar. Its base was a rich, dark brown mixed with shades of honey and warmth. Wreaths of dense ivy curled around the perimeter like a natural bulwark.

  As the Spirit Tree reached higher, its coloration subtly altered; the dappling of earthen hues took on blue and white undertones. At the midway point of the trunk, Sky and Air mana nourished it just as much as Earth, though it never completely abandoned its solid brown roots. Pearl and azure and indigo swirls painted the jagged bark along the upper portion, glowing with crystallized Sky mana.

  Most fascinating of all, the top of it disappeared into a cloud. It may have continued up to space for all Tyr knew, though he doubted it. A source of early confusion for him had been adapting to the fact that the scale of his new world dwarfed Earth. Reaching outer space must be a legendary endeavor, even with magic. Their carriage was at least fifty miles high and they were still in the lower layers of the planet’s atmosphere.

  Rather high to be taking your three-year-old toddler, if anyone asked Tyr. Not even a ‘baby on board’ sign on the carriage to dissuade any colossal rocs or elementals from swooping in to snack on their Sky horses.

  Though, he had to admit, the potential for danger was kind of exciting. None of the other occupants seemed bothered, so he figured they knew something he didn’t.

  As a landmark in the distance, Valorwood was impressive, but as they grew closer its true behemoth nature became even more obvious. It also exposed how absurdly fast the carriage must be moving in the first place, for an object with its sheer scale to rapidly expand at their approach.

  Tyr chose not to dwell too much on the logistics of such a supermassive tree in the first place. It was a mystical anomaly, no doubt ancient beyond belief, but not that special in the grand scheme of things.

  Who are you kidding? This is badass. Look at all those other trees and plant ecosystems branching off of it as well. It’s so big that it must have captured all the spores and seeds and all that in the air and they all grew as offshoots. Or maybe the Tree Spirit attracted them all like a magnet with some sort of Plant Magic, in order to increase its own biomass.

  I wonder, is the entire thing basically a plant hivemind or has the original Tree Spirit conquered and consumed all else?

  Also, isn’t this my family’s provincial Capital? Imagine how many exotic spiritual herbs and unique nature species can be found here, primed for extraction. There must be Druid and Farmer types dedicated to cultivating its growth. For resources, of course, but also for the sake of promoting natural beauty itself. But the resources—

  Anyways, I bet our loyal citizens also grafted all sorts of flora onto it. Look at that gnarly mushroom section. And the witch’s hut grown into the wood. Should I become an alchemist? No, that’d be pointless. We must already have a legion of alchemists that serve us.

  S-Grade Height Potions? Alright, one or two. As a treat.

  What are those nests for? Do we have griffins? Wouldn’t it be proper to give me a pet for my third birthday? Maybe like the haughty baby scion of the griffins that’s actually a cuddly fluffball once you get to know them? With piercing blue eyes, and an extremely rare set of elemental affinities.

  Goodness, we must be absurdly wealthy. Yes, look at all of this. The birthday gifts have yet to begin.

  Mother was watching Tyr intently. He reined in the urge to laugh with wild abandon. At least Father seemed pleased with his reaction to Valorwood.

  Tyr knew he was being a bit of a bratty capitalist, but shouldn’t he take advantage of every opportunity as early as possible, in order to set himself up for a good life? The more he helped himself now, the more he could help others in the future.

  Not to mention that such behavior was to be expected from a toddler. His young nephew back on Earth had also behaved as if a constant stream of praise and Hot Wheels cars were his just due.

  Even with the memories of his past life lingering in the back of his mind, Tyr’s prefrontal cortex—the part of his brain that handled pesky things like impulse control and emotional regulation—was a shriveled little raisin. He’d basically suffered a lobotomy of the soul.

  He was the victim here.

  And, anyways, displaying a maturity beyond his years would only draw suspicion his way.

  This was the perfect opportunity to indulge himself. Perhaps one day he would look back and cringe, but he was willing to accept that delayed humiliation in return for a pet griffin.

  Maybe this is why everyone forgets all their memories from this age and earlier, pondered his older, somewhat wiser voice of reason. Our maturing brains trauma block everything.

  “So big,” Tyr finally said. “I can’t believe we own all this!”

  Garrett coughed. “Should I—?”

  Mother shook her head. “I’ll handle this.” She met Tyr’s eyes, calm and composed. “So, look, sweetie. Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, the role of nobility like us is to protect and maintain a region. We receive societal privileges and status in exchange for upholding our sacred duties. We didn’t want to bother you with all the details until you were older, but just because we are the rulers of Valorwood, doesn’t make us the owners of it.”

  Tyr very much did not like where this was going.

  “Most people can only live in the Undercity, at the base of Valorwood. Besides that, the tree is mostly uninhabited, except for powerful hermits who enjoy being alone and can survive higher up. We also have Cloudhold pretty far up there, staffed by some of our loyal servants. But humanity can’t lay any real claim to a spiritual emblema-schema that existed long before the first person stepped foot on Savra. So, we live here in harmony with Valorwood.”

  She took a breath. Seeing that Tyr hadn't yet broken into tears, she continued, “It’s a very prosperous settlement, of course, that produces all kinds of wonders. And those that help make them should be the ones that benefit from them. That’s only fair, right?”

  The corners of Tyr’s eyes started to sting. “No.”

  She ignored him. “Still, the Hollan Family receives some taxes that help us maintain our status, as payment for ruling well and protecting the region. But we also have debts, taxes we ourselves pay to the High Council, various obligations, and most of what’s left is put back into the community to provide help for those who need it most—”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  And so, her horrifying monologue continued.

  * **

  Emory Hollan despised waiting for anyone, let alone his older brother.

  He had stood in the receiving zone since midnight, ready for Leon’s carriage to arrive. Not that they had bothered to send word that they were coming. It was obvious they would bring their boy on his third birthday in order to test his affinities, and it was only proper for Emory to finally greet his little nephew.

  His annoyance grew as the hours dragged on. He remained in place, standing tall and proud, hands clasped behind his back. A mane of dark hair flowed behind him like a banner in the gale-force winds, though the starched collar of his uniform remained perfectly still.

  Trisa and the kids had long ago departed the landing platform in order to lounge about somewhere, bored with the whole affair. Of course they didn’t see the point. Why wait around all day?

  Emory had to. It was the proper etiquette in this situation. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

  Perhaps he would bow and scrape to someone from the High Council, playing the Game of Nobles in order to eke out some advantage, but this was beneath him. Leon and his wife had disappeared to their countryside estate after the birth of their firstborn. They’d barely been seen since. Meanwhile, Emory’s side branch was tasked with maintaining the honor of the Hollan Family in their absence.

  Those two had always been the selfish sort, unwilling to compromise on their principles. That was the benefit of being the firstborn son. Leon didn’t have to care. He didn’t have to mind his manners and wear fake smiles. None of their father’s wrath or their mother’s manipulations had ever been directed his way. He never had to act perfect in order to simply survive their childhood.

  No, that burden had always been Emory’s to bear. Alone. With how slowly higher Grades aged, it seemed like that had been a lifetime ago. The scars remained, both mental and physical.

  Even worse, Leon had squandered so much of his potential in order to follow the Path of the Pacifist. Despite everything, Emory had idolized his older brother when they were kids, until he finally accepted how much of a fool the man was.

  Marrying Alana Fairhaven had been the one sensible move on his part, but they had failed to leverage her reputation for any real gain. At most, Leon had drawn the ire of her other eager suitors by succeeding where they had failed.

  And what had they done with their union? Behaved like simple commoners, interested only in their storybook romance, instead of those tasked with carrying on the Vision of the Omniscient Bloodline. They bore an ancient pedigree that had persisted through the ages. That seemed to mean nothing to the supposed Hollan Patriarch.

  Yet, they had produced a son within a year of their marriage. Trisa had taken over a decade and birthed four daughters before finally siring Caeden.

  Most insulting of all, the purity of Emory’s own blood was only slightly above average. Bloodline manifestation was random. A roll of the dice. He could distinguish thicker flows of ambient mana and paralyze simple beasts with his stare, but the fates had pulled yet another cruel joke on him.

  His son Caeden was more gifted, but not by much. All the absurdly-expensive elixirs they had consumed had only budged their potential by a hair.

  Not like precious Leon.

  Emory’s hands clenched into fists behind his back.

  Another hour passed.

  In the blink of an eye, they finally appeared. A blur, then a pair of radiant white horses alighted upon the landing platform. The lacquered redwood carriage settled down a moment later, inertia and air resistance runes carved along the underside flaring pale blue with unattuned mana.

  Finally, time to see for myself if the rumors are true.

  Emory hadn’t been permitted to attend the birth of his own nephew. A very intentional slight, though he wasn’t sure which parent had made the decision. Probably both of them. They were usually united in mind, to an annoying extent.

  Some noble gossip claimed that one of them had been magically enthralled by the other. Emory had never bothered to defend them against such accusations. After all, who was he to say they weren’t true?

  He hadn’t actually cared about missing the birth of the brat that had forced him back another step in line for the title of Patriarch. No, he was upset he hadn’t been able to see that fabled first moment himself.

  Pure rainbow irises and pupils, a marker of absolute Bloodline purity that hadn’t manifested in a Hollan boy for the past thousand years. Emory didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He was desperate for it to be true, and desperate for it to be wrong.

  He forced himself not to react as the door to the carriage opened. Garrett Hightower, once one of the most lauded mages of his generation, slid out first. Followed by the Grey Maids: commoner twins, but even Emory felt an urge to nod in acknowledgement of their potent, tightly-controlled auras.

  Leon was next. Still smug, still devilishly handsome. His suit was wrinkled and sloppy in a way that could only be intentional, given how expensive and riddled with enchantments the man’s entire wardrobe was. Especially those spectacles of his.

  Emory had taken a Heavenly Attunement Pill at midnight in order to temporarily boost his mana perception. Glancing at Leon was like witnessing a solar flare.

  Finally, Alana slipped out of the carriage with unbelievable grace, staff strapped to her back. Common daughter of a legendary dancer and middling surgeon, yet her beauty was breathtaking. Literally. Emory forced himself to swallow a gulp of air.

  What a work of art. Biomodification for perfection in the womb wouldn’t come close to a result like this. She was an inspiration. Motherhood had only added to her radiance.

  In her arms was the bawling brat. Inconsolable. Unacceptable.

  Tyrus was puny; Caeden was a couple years older, but had been twice as large at that age.

  The tip of a whitewood wand peeked out from the breast pocket of his stupid little suit—the clothing was an identical, downscaled copy of Leon’s, also layered with countless protective runes.

  The boy had his mother’s hair, thick and luxurious, curling around his ears and nape of his neck like peels of carved gold. Above his chubby cheeks were red, puffy eyes that looked as if they had been stung by Basilisk Wasps. Snot bubbled from his nostrils.

  Emory activated his [ Sight of the Titan ], infusing his eyes with as much mana as possible. Slim prismatic rings lit up along his irises. He forced his blood into a turbulent roil, attempting to squeeze as much potency from the Heavenly Attunement Pill as he could. All of this, and the boy’s eyes still appeared completely mundane.

  Black irises. Pure black. That didn’t mean anything on its own, of course; Leon could mask his own in a similar way. But Emory had always been able to see through that simple trick.

  With all of his enhancements and a dangerous amount of mana circulating through [ Sight of the Titan ], nothing should have been able to escape him. Yet, not the faintest glimmer of their Bloodline could be seen within the child’s eyes.

  That was almost as suspicious as the idea that he had a perfect manifestation of the Vision. Black meant a pure rejection of mana. Even bastard offshoots had a trace amount of their ancestral power. Zero percent was almost as rare as one hundred.

  Emory forced himself to smile and wave. “Leon! Alana! And look at this precious little guy! Aww, what’s wrong? Rough trip? I remember my first flying carriage ride.”

  If Garrett Hightower or the Grey Maids noticed the slight, they didn’t bother to show it.

  “Emory!” Leon stepped forward, arms outstretched for a hug.

  Emory loomed over him, at least twice as muscular, but he allowed himself to be subsumed into his older brother’s arms as if he was still a little kid.

  “Didn’t expect to see you waiting here!” Leon beamed in delight, his eyes unsealed. Rainbow swirls danced hypnotically, consuming most of his irises. “Dutiful as always. Where’s Trisa? How’re Cammy, Meliz, Sara, Elea?” He rattled off their nicknames with fondness. “I hear Braeden is getting mighty tall!”

  Emory’s eyelid twitched.