Albion did not feel like another kingdom.
It felt like crossing into another world.
The moment they stepped across the border bridge, the canopy closed above them like an emerald cathedral. Sunlight filtered through shifting leaves, painting living patterns across mossy paths. Roots thicker than houses twisted into ancient ruins, and bridges grew from vines braided by druidcraft.
Houses were carved into hollow trunks.
Market stalls sprouted out of roots.
Rivers powered entire villages through wooden water wheels.
The air itself felt different—cool, damp, humming faintly with old magic.
Kael took a deep breath.
“This place… feels lighter. Like nobody’s watching us.”
Eryn adjusted his cracked glasses.
“That’s because there’s no king here. This is… some form of organized chaos.”
Borgas pressed a palm to a wooden railing.
“It’s warm. And it smells like bread.”
Dael sighed.
“Everything smells like bread to you.”
Yava walked ahead, steps quiet, Galaxy Eyes reflecting the gentle light.
“Lesson thirteen,” he murmured.
“Strength wears many faces. Steel conquers. Coin endures. Flavor heals. But roots… roots bind. And Albion has very deep roots.”
Votes Beneath the Trees
As they entered the border village of Thornwick, they ran into a riot of voices.
“CAST YOUR VOTE!”
“THAL FOR RIVERKEEPER!”
“NO—DIMA FIXED THE WATER WHEEL!”
“DIMA! DIMA! DIMA!”
A crowd swarmed a large glowing stone tablet.
Villagers took turns pressing runes to cast their votes.
Kael blinked.
“…Festival?”
“No,” Eryn whispered.
“This is democracy.”
Dael grimaced.
“Politics gives me indigestion.”
A kindly elf elder turned toward them.
“Welcome to Thornwick Village! We’re electing our representative for the Council of Roots. One voice per heart, and every vote matters.”
Kael frowned.
“So anyone can run?”
“Anyone,” the elder replied proudly.
“The Council is the voice of the people.”
A child tugged Eryn’s sleeve.
“Vote for Dima! She gave me free cookies!”
Kael muttered, “Bribery…”
Eryn whispered, “Efficient…”
Albion was chaotic, loud, and unpredictable—
and yet strangely unified.
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Roots That Survived Storms
Further into the village, hunters repaired traps while druids tended glowing herb gardens. Children practiced archery with sharp, precise shots.
A dwarven hunter waved at them.
“You lot hear about the northern ridge?”
“No?” Kael asked.
“Eryndor tried to take it last winter. Hundred men.”
“What?!” Kael yelped.
The dwarf grinned.
“Just some druids, twenty hunters, and one very angry boar spirit chased ’em off.”
Eryn almost dropped his notebook.
“That’s mind blowing.”
“Damn right,” the hunter said proudly.
“This is ALBION!!!!”
Market of Living Wood — and Divine Hypocrisy
The group entered the marketplace.
It was a maze of:
- herbalists selling glowing leaves
- druids grinding powders into potions
- artisans carving weapons from living wood
- druids weaving vine armor
- beastfolk cooking pastries on stone grills
- river merchants shouting from raft shops
Kael spotted a baker handing Borgas a steaming pie.
Dael immediately frowned.
“Where did you get that?”
“He gave it to me,” Borgas said, pointing at the baker.
Dael opened his mouth to lecture him—
Then froze.
Because two stalls ahead…
a shelf glimmered with rare spices.
“Stormsalt…
Snowpepper…
Dromek Ash-sage…
Solmere Butter Pods…”
Dael’s pupils dilated.
His breathing changed.
He stepped forward like a hungry tiger spotting prey.
“Oh no,” Kael whispered.
“It’s happening.”
Dael slammed his hands onto the counter.
“I’LL TAKE EVERYTHING.”
“What?!” Kael shouted.
“Master! We need money for travel!”
“Food IS travel,” Dael replied poetically, grabbing jars like holy relics.
The merchant grinned.
“If the great chef is buying rare spices… may I interest you in this Titanleaf Storage Box? Keeps ingredients fresh for a whole year.”
Dael’s hands trembled.
“I’ll take five.”
Eryn fainted.
Kael screamed.
Borgas nodded approvingly.
Then—
another merchant approached Yava discreetly.
“Esteemed sir… I have artifacts found beneath Albion’s roots. Ancient relics. Rare. Priceless.”
Kael grabbed Yava’s sleeve.
“Master… No… Pull yourself together”
But Yava’s Galaxy Eyes already flickered.
“Ancient relics…? Show me.”
The merchant unveiled:
? a Dimensional Hinge Core
? a Rune-Scribed Lens
? a Broken Sword
? a Druidic Chrono-Charm
Yava inhaled sharply.
“These are… wonderful.”
His appraisal skill activated instinctively—
a divine-level reflex from centuries of merchant experience.
Eryn whispered to Kael:
“…Divine hypocrisy.”
Borgas nodded.
“It’s contagious.”
Yava was already holding his coin pouch.
Dael looked over, offended.
“HEY! Don’t judge me, Fox! You’re worse!”
“Silence, hypocrite,” Yava muttered, purchasing everything.
The Architect’s Touch
As they left the market, a low rumble vibrated through the forest.
They turned.
A bridge… was growing.
Vines twisted upward, merging with stone that flowed like molten clay.
Wood bent gracefully, sprouting white blossoms.
Blueprint lines shimmered in the air.
A man in moss-cloth robes stood at the center, tracing glowing runes with his fingertip. Every motion reshaped reality.
His eyes glowed with blueprint light.
His hands were calloused from centuries of creation.
Kael whispered breathlessly.
“Is he… a mage?”
Yava shook his head.
“That is one of the Seven Divines.”
Eryn nearly choked.
“The Divine Architect… He’s right there?!”
As the bridge finished forming, the architect dusted off his hands and walked away quietly — disappearing into the forest, the trees parting for him like wind through leaves.
Borgas whispered, wide-eyed:
“He’s strong.”
Yava smiled faintly.
“He’s home.”
Into the Heart of Albion
A squad of rangers approached, no longer hostile.
“Visitors from the border,” their captain said.
“The Council of Roots wishes to speak with you.”
Kael grimaced.
“Are we… being arrested again?”
“No.”
“It’s worse,” Eryn muttered.
“Politics.”
Dael groaned.
“I hate politics.”
Yava gestured toward the huge roots spiraling ahead.
“We’ll survive.”
The massive trunk of the Crownwood, the oldest tree on the continent, towered above them. Its hollow interior pulsed with soft golden light.
The Council of Roots awaited.
Yava stopped once, looking north—toward Eryndor.
A storm rumbled faintly across the sky.
“…We don't have much time,” he murmured.
He stepped forward.
Albion’s future waited under the ancient roots.
End of Chapter Eight