The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of wet soil from last night's rain. Verdalis' leaves shimmered with dew, each droplet catching slivers of sunlight like scattered jewels.
Roland stood with a cup of warm grain tea in hand, watching the sapling's small branches stretch toward the dawn. Sol snored lightly on the porch, one paw twitching in a dream.
Behind him, Corvo sat cross-legged near the firepit, quietly polishing a curved dagger that gleamed like obsidian glass. His expression was unreadable, but when Roland turned, the crow-man spoke without looking up.
"You met her, didn't you?"
Roland blinked. "You mean Verdalis?"
Corvo nodded once. "In a dream, I'd wager. She's young, but her spirit is bright. You must've made quite the impression."
Roland chuckled softly, leaning against the porch post. "She's… talkative, that's for sure. She told me she remembers her mother's knowledge. Frindle's memories, I think she called them."
Corvo's hand paused. For a long moment, only the fire crackled. Then, quietly, he said, "Frindle wasn't just any divine tree. She was a World Tree — one of the few capable of nurturing a planet into balance."
Roland turned fully toward him. "You knew her?"
Corvo's black eyes lifted, faint gold glinting in the firelight. "Knew her? I lived beside her. I owe her everything I am."
He sheathed the blade and rested his elbows on his knees, his voice soft, drawn by memory.
"Frindle began as the heart of a quiet, fertile world. Under her roots, life flourished — mushroom folk, bushfolk, flower spirits. Gentle beings, born of her essence. They worshiped her not as a god, but as a mother. They built homes around her roots and lived in harmony with the land."
Roland listened quietly as Corvo's tone softened — tinged with both fondness and sorrow.
"But one among them," he continued, "a mushroom being unlike the others… carried the soul of a reincarnated man. He taught Frindle something new — cultivation. The art of guiding life energy, refining essence, transforming potential into power. She absorbed it like sunlight. The land itself began to breathe with awareness, and the tribe prospered beyond measure."
He stared into the flames. "But prosperity draws eyes. The invaders came — the Ashram. Conquerors from another world, born of hunger and greed. They burned forests, poisoned rivers, and sought to chain Frindle's for their own power. She fought back, but even a World Tree can bleed."
Roland's jaw tightened. "What happened to her people?"
Corvo's answer was quiet, heavy. "They died protecting her. The ones who survived… offered themselves willingly. Their bodies nourished her; their souls became her light. She changed that day — shed her divine calm. Her form split and twisted into something the stars themselves feared: a World Devourer. She consumed the invaders, the land, even the sky itself. Her grief turned her energy chaotic."
He exhaled slowly, eyes distant. "That was when I came to be. Or rather… was remade."
Roland frowned. "Remade?"
Corvo nodded. "I was a man once — in another life. Her battle tore through space and time. I was caught in its wake and killed. But Frindle… she saved me. Reincarnated me into a crow, small enough to live unnoticed in a shattered world."
A faint smile curved his lips. "We grew close. She was lonely — tired, but curious. She taught me to cultivate, and I taught her about mortals. She gave me the Grand Astral Refinement Technique, a method of harmonizing divine and mortal essence. But it had consequences."
Roland tilted his head. "Consequences?"
"Our minds linked," Corvo said quietly. "Over time, our memories merged. She began reliving her worst days through me. The pain… it overwhelmed her. One day, she awoke screaming — and rampaged across the battlefield when the Ashram returned. Entire mountains burned under her sorrow."
He closed his eyes briefly. "When it was over, all that remained of her was a sapling — the same line Verdalis descends from. But she grew again. She remembered everything. We rebuilt what we could. We even fought together for centuries — side by side, like siblings bound by fate."
Roland swallowed, the weight of the story settling like rain on his shoulders. "So you've known her for ages."
"Longer than I can measure," Corvo said, a wistful smile touching his lips. "We built a sanctuary for wanderers and survivors. My main body still lives there, guarding our domain. This…" He gestured at himself. "This is an avatar — a projection of my will. A way to walk new lands, to find peace in smaller places."
Roland took a slow breath, eyes drifting toward the young sapling glowing softly near the pond. "And now… Frindle's child is here."
"Yes," Corvo murmured. "And perhaps, this time, she'll grow in a world without war. Under the care of someone who tends life not for glory, but for love."
Roland smiled faintly. "You make me sound better than I am."
Corvo gave a quiet chuckle. "Then I'll let the results speak for you, Farmer."
They sat in silence for a while — watching smoke curl into the morning sky, listening to the soft breeze move through Verdalis' leaves.
It wasn't divine thunder or cosmic storms that marked that morning — just the calm heartbeat of a new beginning.
And in that quiet, Roland thought he heard a faint, childish giggle from the sapling — like the laughter of someone dreaming of fun things.