The Heart Grove is like nothing you’ve ever seen.

A clearing in the endless forest, but the word “clearing” doesn’t capture it. The trees here are cathedral-sized, their branches interweaving high above to form a living dome. Light filters through leaves in shafts of gold and green. Flowers bloom everywhere—on the ground, climbing the trunks, hanging from branches—in colors you don’t have names for.

And at the center, a tree unlike any other.

It’s not the largest, but it’s the oldest. You can feel its age like weight in the air. Its bark is silver-white, its leaves a pale green that seems to glow. And nestled in its roots, protected by a cocoon of vines, you see it.

Thornwen’s Seed.

Wren stands beside the tree, her form seeming to merge with the dappled light.

“This was her home,” she says. “Before the founders. Before Eldermoor. Before humans built their cities and forgot the old ways. She lived here for a thousand years, tending the forest, speaking to spirits, healing what was broken.”

“Why did she leave?”

“Because she saw what was coming. Humans spreading across the land, forgetting the balance. She thought if she helped them build one city the right way, she could teach them to live in harmony.” Wren’s voice holds ancient sadness. “She was wrong.”

You approach the tree. The seed pulses with gentle green light.

“Take it,” Wren says. “You’ve proven yourself to the forest. But when you do, you’ll see her final moments. Her last gift to the world.”

You reach into the roots.

Your fingers close around the seed.

Green light, but deeper than any green you’ve known. The smell of growing things. Thornwen’s voice, serene and sad.

“You came.”

You stand in this same grove, but earlier. Thornwen is there—not a ghost, but alive. A woman of impossible age and eternal youth, her body wreathed in living vines, flowers blooming in her footsteps.

“I knew one of you would, eventually. Seraphine was so certain her prophecy would work. I had my doubts.” She smiles. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

The scene shifts. Thornwen facing Varek, his blade already dripping with blood—Aldric’s blood.

“You could run,” Varek says. “You could disappear into your forest. I might never find you.”

“You would find me eventually. You always do.” Thornwen’s voice is calm. “But that’s not why I’m staying.”

“Then why?”

“Because Seraphine wove a prophecy, and prophecies need power. Three deaths to fuel the binding. Three souls to anchor the gem. But Seraphine added something else.” Thornwen smiles. “Every death you cause, every soul you trap, strengthens the prophecy. By killing us, you’re creating the weapon that will destroy you.”

Varek’s smile flickers.

“I accept my death,” Thornwen continues. “I accept it because I know—I KNOW—that someday, someone will come. Someone born of the gem’s hope. Someone who will gather what we left behind.” She looks directly at you. “Someone like you.”

The blade falls.

But Thornwen’s smile remains.

You return to the present, tears streaming down your face.

The seed pulses in your hand, warm and alive. And you understand now what it means.

Thornwen didn’t just accept her death. She chose it. She made her murder part of the plan.

Wren is watching you.

“You see now,” she says. “Why the forest let you through. Why I guide rather than guard.” Her eyes are old, so old. “You’re the answer to a question three centuries in the asking.”

You hold the seed gently. Through it, you can feel the forest—every tree, every creature, every spirit. And beneath that, faintly, you feel something else.

The founders. Waiting. Hoping.

Ready to help when the time comes.

All three relics are yours.

It’s time to return to Eldermoor.