Lira stepped closer to the Spirit Tree, her fingers brushing the bark. The pulse beneath it responded with a deep, slow thrum that echoed inside her bones.
Renkai stood beside her, quiet for a time. Then, he spoke.
"There is a rite older than the academy, older even than the grove. It was once used by those who had forgotten… and those who chose to return."
They knelt at the base of the Spirit Tree. Renkai drew a circle around them in fine white dust something like salt, perhaps, or crushed crystal root. Within the circle, he placed small objects from his pouch: a fox's whisker, a silver leaf, a carved bone token, and a crystal vial filled with moonlit water. Each item placed at a point around them.
The tree began to glow more deeply.
"Speak your name," Renkai said, his voice low and rhythmic. "The one you carry now."
"Lira."
He nodded. "And now, if it comes… the name before."
Silence.
And then she started:
"El—" Her voice cracked. "Elaris."
The word fell like a key into a long-locked chamber.
The tree responded. A gust of warm, scented wind spiraled through the clearing, and the leaves shimmered gold and silver at once. The vial at the circle's edge trembled and then burst into mist.
Renkai placed the blade between them.
"Blood remembers," he said. "A single drop. If you give it freely, the path will open."
Lira took the blade.
A quick breath.
Then a shallow cut across her palm.
Her blood welled bright red, shimmering faintly.
It fell to the roots of the Spirit Tree.
The ground pulsed.
Then Renkai took the blade, mirrored her movement, and offered his blood beside hers.
Where their blood touched the roots, the earth split slightly, and a narrow tendril of light grew upward like a vine. It curled gently around her wrist, not painful, not forceful. A memory in motion.
The air thickened. Images swirled behind her eyes the flashes of another time: a burning city, her hand raised in protection, the silver fox at her side, her voice chanting in an ancient tongue. Renkai's face was younger, wilder, him standing between her and a blade not meant for mortals.
Then silence.
Lira opened her eyes, breath heaving.
Renkai was already watching her. "You saw it."
She nodded, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. "Some of it. Enough."
"The rest will come."
And then the Spirit Tree shifted. A panel of bark unfurled, revealing a small hollow in the trunk. Inside it: a vial. The same shape she'd seen in the painting. Her hand trembled as she reached for it.
"It waited for you," Renkai whispered. "All this time."
Lira held the vial close. Warm. Alive.
Not just a potion.
A memory. A promise.
A bond.
She cradled the vial in her hands, its warmth pulsing softly like a heartbeat.
But Renkai didn't move. He remained kneeling beside the Spirit Tree, head bowed, one hand pressed over his chest.
"There is one last act," he said quietly. "To seal the bond. If you wish it."
She turned to him. The leaves above still shimmered silver and gold, the air humming with echoes of memory.
"What kind of bond?" she asked.
His eyes lifted to meet hers steady, solemn.
"A mark," he said. "Given by you, received by me. A drop of your blood on my brow. It will call me, wherever you are. If you're in danger… if the path darkens. I will come."
Lira hesitated. Her palm still bore the shallow cut. The blood had stopped, but a single ruby bead lingered at the edge.
She stepped closer.
"You would bind yourself to me?"
"I already am," Renkai said simply. "But this would awaken the bond… in both worlds."
She searched his face for any sign of hesitation. Found none.
Then, slowly, she reached out. Her thumb brushed the bead of blood, lifted it carefully. Renkai bowed his head further, the silver strands of his hair catching the tree's glow.
With reverence, Lira pressed the blood to his forehead.
The moment it touched, the clearing stilled.
No wind. No sound.
Then it came - a low, resonant chime, as if the tree itself exhaled.
A faint symbol bloomed where her blood touched his skin — not a letter, but a curve of ancient light, shifting like moonlit water. It pulsed once, then sank into his skin, vanishing.
Renkai's breath caught, but he didn't move.
The Spirit Tree whispered its approval — a breeze curling around them, gentle and warm.
"It is done," Renkai said softly. He looked up at her, something new flickering behind his eyes. A peace. A promise. "If you drink the vial now, I will be there. Even if not in body. The bond is old magic — it will guide me to you when you call."
Lira closed her fingers around the vial.
A memory.
A promise.
A bond.
And now — a protector.
She knelt beside him, her forehead touching his briefly in return.
"Then let the path begin," she whispered.
And she drank.
The potion slipped down Lira's throat like warm starlight.
She gasped — not in pain, but release.
A weight she hadn't known she carried lifted from her shoulders. The ache in her chest softened. Her limbs felt lighter, her breath fuller. She stood still, eyes closed, and for the first time in what felt like years — she felt whole.
Complete.
When she opened her eyes, Renkai was already watching her with a faint, knowing smile.
He stood and offered his hand. She took it, steady.
"It accepted you," he said. "And you accepted yourself."
As she steadied her breath, he continued, "There's something you should know — especially if Therin is to attempt the same."
She turned toward him, alert.
"This kind of potion," Renkai said, "isn't just brewed. It's grown. It recognizes the bond between protector and protected. Therin would need a protector first — one willing to kneel. One willing to bind."
She furrowed her brow. "So the ritual is necessary?"
"For the true potion? Yes. Without the bond, the vial remains empty. With a chosen protector, the ritual awakens the thread between them. That's when the spirit tree reveals its gift."
"And the vial?"
"With most protectors," Renkai said, glancing down at the now-empty bottle in her hand, "it's not even needed. The connection is enough. But when the bond runs deeper — soul-deep — the potion anchors it. Makes it endure."
He paused, then added, "So enduring, that betrayal becomes… nearly impossible. The bond holds both sides accountable."
Lira let the words settle, feeling their weight.
"This ritual," Renkai continued, "is also used with familiars. Though rarer now. If one is far from their familiar or protector — even across realms — a hair, a feather, anything of theirs placed in the potion can summon a phantom. Not a shadow, but something real, something with their true strength. It won't last long. A heartbeat. A battle. Enough to tip the scales."
"But then they disappear?"
He nodded. "Most do. Unless… the protector has skills. Abilities tied to teleportation or portals. In those rare cases, they can come themselves. Entirely. In body and soul."
Lira looked down at the bottle again, fingers closing around it as if it still pulsed with warmth.
"You've made this for me."
"I've answered a call," Renkai said, his voice softer now. "One that began lifetimes ago."
Their eyes met. No more needed to be said.
For now, the bond held.
And somewhere deep within the roots of the Spirit Tree, the old magic stirred again — awake, remembering.
As Lira lowered the empty vial, a subtle glow shimmered in the air between them. She reached out instinctively, brushing Renkai's forehead.
"There's a mark," she whispered.
Renkai blinked. "A mark?"
She nodded. "Right here." Her fingers hovered just above his skin. "It looks like… vines. Twisting in a spiral. Red, but soft, like emberlight. It's… beautiful."
He stilled at her touch, then exhaled as if he understood.
"It appeared," he murmured. "Then the ritual succeeded."
"What does it mean?" she asked, voice low.
Renkai stepped back slightly, letting her see the mark better as it pulsed once and then settled — not glowing, but clearly there, like a fine tattoo carved by magic itself.
"It's the sign of the bond," he explained. "Only those who offer themselves freely — protector to protected — and are accepted… bear it. It's proof that the magic has chosen. That the connection now runs deeper than the seen."
Lira tilted her head. "Does it hurt?"
"No," he said. "But I will feel it… when you call."
A pause, then his eyes met hers. "Whether in danger, grief, or need — even if no words pass your lips — I will know. And I will come."
She looked at him, her chest tight with something between gratitude and awe.
"And if you're far?"
"I will still come," he said simply. "The mark makes sure of it."
The wind shifted slightly through the trees, as if the Spirit Tree acknowledged their pact.
Lira stepped back and let herself breathe again — and in that breath was peace, strength, and the quiet knowledge that she was no longer alone.
Not truly.
Suddenly, Renkai smirked.
With a flash of movement, a fan appeared in his hand — sleek, pale wood with silver threading — and he opened it with a sharp flick. With exaggerated grace, he began to fan himself, eyes half-lidded and glinting with mischief.
"You know," he drawled, "my powers are so great, you cannot even imagine. You don't need some silly potion to call me. I can simply—" he waved the fan dramatically, "whoosh — and be with you. Teleportation and portals? Child's play."
His face was full of pride, chin tilted just slightly upward in mock arrogance. And yet, even in that moment of theatrical flair, the poise and beauty of him remained untouched — like a spirit from an old poem playing at vanity.
Lira watched him, a soft chuckle escaping her lips.
"Yes, Renkai," she said, amused. "I believe you. You've already shown me more than enough."
Renkai paused, fan frozen mid-air. He gave her a slightly offended look, his brows rising in mock hurt.
"Well," he said with a huff, closing the fan with a snap, "if you don't believe me, then you shall see."
With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the base of the Spirit Tree, dropping into his usual lounging posture with dramatic elegance. He crossed one leg over the other and closed his eyes, as if the entire forest were his personal stage.
Lira chuckled again, shaking her head fondly.
She knelt by the patch of earth near the tree and gently brushed away some of the moss. Beneath it, the special seed she had planted days ago now a young plant was tender, glowing faintly, a new life full of promise.
She smiled quietly to herself.
Magic had its rituals. But sometimes, the simple things — growth, light, and a companion who made you laugh — were just as sacred.
She wondered what will grow from this seed then she remembered she had few seeds with her to plant them her in the groove.