Old Oak Guardian

Before the first animal opened its eyes each spring, the Oak already knew.

Through roots that wound deeper than rivers, through soil that remembered every

frost and every thaw, he felt the tremor — faint as a dying breath, certain as

the turning of the world.

He did not move. He had not moved in a thousand years. His bark bore the scars

of every winter Morana had ever waged, every fire the dawn bird had scattered

across his canopy. Yet he remained. Not because he could not fall, but because

nothing had yet earned the right to topple him.

When the Great Egg appeared beneath his roots, he did not reach for it. He did

not warm it. He simply held the ground firm and let the world decide.

Some said he was loyal to spring. Others claimed he served winter just as

faithfully, sheltering frost in his hollows when the sun grew too bold. The

truth was simpler. The Oak served the forest. Whatever the season demanded,

he endured.