Kaelen and the Tree of Promise

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The clouds hung heavy over the valley as Kaelen descended the slope. Varaan, her slate-colored dragon with moss-covered horns, followed slowly, the pack clinking softly on his back. For days, the villagers had been talking about a tree that was no ordinary tree. They called it the "Tree of Promise," and everyone who approached heard voices—promises that seemed to come from the future. Some returned strengthened, others lost themselves in silence. Kaelen felt a tug, as if the wind itself had called them. As they reached the valley, the tree emerged from the mist. It was taller than all the others, its trunk as wide as a house, and its crown sparkled, though no light penetrated the clouds. Patterns like constellations glowed among the leaves. Varaan snorted, his lizard-like eyes gleaming suspiciously. "I know," Kaelen said quietly. "But we are not here for nothing." Kaelen approached, and immediately voices filled the air. Some sweet, some stern, some coaxing. "Come closer, Daughter of the Ways," they whispered. "Here is the path you seek." The words crept under her skin. Kaelen instinctively reached for her belt, but she carried no weapons, only tools, maps, ropes. Everything was useless against words that pierced the soul. The tree opened a crack in its bark, as if it were a door. Light glowed behind it. Kaelen hesitated, but Varaan pressed forward, planting his foreclaws firmly in the ground. His horns cracked in the wind, as if warding off the promise. "Stay with me," Kaelen whispered, placing her hand on his neck. She stepped into the crack. Inside was no wood, but a space of shimmering fabric. Roots formed tunnels, and small spheres floated on each of them. In each one, an image sparkled—Kaelen as she stood elsewhere: at the edge of a royal throne, on a glass staircase, at Varaan's side in a distant battle. "Choose," the voices whispered. "Here is your future. Every path a promise. Every fruit a destination." Kaelen clenched her fists. "A tree that shows only the future steals the present," she murmured. Varaan pressed his head against her shoulder, heavy and warm. The voices grew louder. "Reach for just one sphere, and your path will be bright." Kaelen raised her hand—but stopped. Her heart pounded. Wasn't this the trap? Not the light, but the choice itself? She stepped back. "I don't want another's path," she cried. "I want mine." The tree trembled. The spheres flickered, some bursting like soap bubbles. A deep creak ran through the trunk, and suddenly the illusion shattered: dark tendrils hung from the crown, reaching for her. Not a promise, but a bond. Varaan roared, lunging forward, his blast of fire burning away the first tendrils.