Gregor's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Gregor knelt beside the cedar and pressed his palm against the bark. The wood felt wrong — cool where it should have been warm, dry where it should have held life. Something was killing it, and he couldn't see what. He'd spent fifteen years tending this arboretum, learning every fern and vine, but this was different. The cedar had stood here longer than the estate, longer than any of them. If he couldn't save it, who would? And if he stayed to try, how many more years would pass before he finally left to study the tidal pools and salt marshes he'd only read about in books? He circled the trunk, running his fingers along the twisted bark, searching for beetles or rot. The roots spread wide as carriage wheels, thick as his torso where they plunged into the earth. Nothing visible. No boring dust, no soft spots, no fungal blooms. He crouched low and sniffed near the base — no sweet decay, no sour sap. The tree's canopy still showed green, but three branches on the north side had dropped their needles early. He pulled his journal from his pocket and sketched the pattern, marking which limbs looked thin. Without knowing the cause, he couldn't treat it. Without treating it, the cedar would die. And he would stay here, watching it fail, until he forgot what the ocean smelled like. He walked to the greenhouse and gathered glass vials from the workbench. Soil samples first. He'd test the pH, check for salt buildup, look for anything that shouldn't be there. Back at the cedar, he dug carefully around the roots with his trowel, filling three vials from different depths. The soil looked normal, felt normal, smelled like earth and old wood. He pressed his forehead against the trunk and closed his eyes, listening for the tree's name the way he'd learned in the Feywilds. But all he heard was silence where there should have been a hum. The cedar was still alive, still breathing, but something had stolen its voice. He straightened and wiped the dirt from his hands. Tomorrow he'd start the tests. Tomorrow he'd find the answer. Because if he couldn't solve this, he'd never leave — and the cedar would die anyway. But then his hoof struck something hard beneath the fallen needles. He knelt and brushed the debris aside. A stone, black and smooth, sat half-buried near the largest root. Pale green moss clung to its surface, glowing faintly in the shade. He'd cleared this ground a hundred times and never seen it before. He picked it up and turned it over. The moss pulsed with a dim light, brighter where his fingers touched. He set the stone in his palm and looked up at the dying branches. The tree had no voice, but maybe it had left him a clue. He slipped the stone into his pocket and began searching the ground for more.