Cypress's Arc

Chapter 6 of 10

Cypress stood before the moss-covered stone, staring at Orin's carved name. They had the druid's identity now, the final piece they'd been searching for. But the answer felt hollow. The journals never explained why Orin chose that specific cypress tree. They never revealed what made Cypress worth transforming. Knowing the name didn't unlock the purpose behind it all. The stone marker suddenly seemed foolish—a celebration of incomplete knowledge. Cypress's wooden fingers trembled as doubt crept through them like rot. Maybe the real answer didn't exist in the swamp at all. Maybe Orin had simply picked a tree at random, and there was no deeper meaning to discover. The weight of that possibility pressed down on their shoulders. They turned away from the stone, feeling more lost than when they first woke at the Awakening Circle. Progress had led to an empty room with no doors forward. Cypress wandered without direction until they found the meditation space again. They dropped onto the moss and tried to find that quiet feeling from before. Nothing came. Their thoughts spun in angry circles. Near the entrance, a stone pedestal stood half-buried in mud and overgrowth. The surface showed carvings worn almost flat by time and weather. Cypress moved closer and brushed away the moss. Symbols covered the stone, but they were too damaged to read. Whatever ceremony this pedestal once held was lost now, forgotten like everything else the druids left behind. Cypress pushed the stone hard. It didn't move. They shoved again, branches creaking with the effort. The pedestal tilted slightly, then settled back into the mud. Even breaking something felt impossible. Past the meditation room, a copper gong hung from a wooden frame. Green marks spread across its surface like a disease. Cypress grabbed the striker lying in the grass and hit the gong as hard as they could. The sound came out dull and broken, swallowed by the thick air. They struck it again. Again. Each hit rang hollow and wrong. This gong had once called druids together for gatherings and transformations. Now it couldn't even make a proper sound. Cypress threw the striker into the water and sank to the ground. Orin was gone. The other druids were gone. Every ritual site stood abandoned and ruined. The swamp held no living answers, only broken pieces of a world that didn't exist anymore. Cypress pressed their forehead against their knees and accepted the truth. They would never know why Orin chose them. Some questions stayed locked forever, and this was one of them. Movement caught their eye through the fog. A rope stretched between two rotting posts, its fibers frayed and dark with moisture. The rope continued into the mist, pointing toward a part of the swamp Cypress hadn't searched yet. They stood and grabbed hold of it, letting it guide them forward. Their feet sank deeper into mud with each step. The rope led them in circles, doubling back on itself, taking them past the same fallen log three times. After an hour of walking, Cypress found themselves back at the meditation space. The rope had taken them nowhere. Just another dead path in a swamp full of them. Cypress sat against the wall and closed their amber eyes. Every direction led to failure. Every clue ended in silence. The search was over, and they had lost.