B8 - Chapter 13: Mentor II

Treemother.

Of course Zeke knew who that was—and more importantly, what the name implied. She was the closest thing the Matriarchy had to a queen, the oldest living elf. Some even claimed she was the voice of Yggdrasil itself, the one who conveyed the Tree’s will to its chosen people.

And for once, the person seemed to live up to the fame.

The Treemother looked ancient, which for an elf meant something. Her skin had the texture of weathered bark, and her hair hung in long silver strands that pooled around her feet. Yet her back remained straight, her movements fluid. Age without weakness—a combination Zeke rarely saw among humans.

None of which mattered right now.

“Unhand me.”

The woman calmly shook her head. “Not until you’ve regained control of yourself, young man.”

Zeke’s teeth clenched, every muscle in his body urging him to tear her throat out for that patronizing tone. But a flex of his arms confirmed what he already suspected—he wasn’t going anywhere. Not by his strength alone. Not while his Magic remained sealed.

That left him with only one weapon still at his disposal—his tongue.

“You dare speak of control? Tell me,

Mother

, how well do you control your children?”

His eyes shifted to the girl lying nearby. She hadn’t risen since the thrashing he’d given her, yet there wasn’t a single mark left on her body. The Tree’s blessing had healed its unworthy chosen once again.

The Treemother followed his gaze, a faint frown forming as she looked at the girl. It seemed born of concern rather than condemnation.

“Seraphi has always been... passionate,” she said softly. “Still, it remains her right not to be touched against her will.”

Zeke scoffed. “Funny laws you have. Is the punishment for touching her arm death by strangulation? Carried out immediately?”

The Treemother’s expression hardened. “Sarcasm will not serve you here. I have already admitted that she was overly zealous. There’s no need to dramatize the matter further. As far as I can tell, you are unharmed, are you not?”

“No thanks to you or yours.” Zeke made no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice. “But I suppose we’ll never know if I would’ve survived otherwise, will we? How convenient.”

The Treemother was silent for a long moment, her ancient eyes studying him without a hint of emotion.

“…Goldleaf spoke highly of you, human,” she said at last. “She described a brilliant mind—one capable of reading the tides of politics with near-prophetic clarity. She claimed you would be a valuable ally in our struggle against the Empire.”

Her gaze drifted over his bloodied form, her brows knitting faintly. “I see little of that here. To me, you seem more butcher than sage. I am afraid that under these circumstances, I find myself rather disinclined to take your sister as my pupil.”

Zeke didn’t know whether it was the blood pounding in his ears, the indignation of being restrained for the second time in as many minutes, or the lingering pulse of Draconic Essence burning through his veins—but when he heard those words, he couldn’t contain himself.

Laughter burst from his throat. Cold. Mirthless. Unrestrained. It wasn’t amusement—it was disbelief given voice.

The elven girls flinched, glancing at one another with wide, uneasy eyes. A few of the younger ones edged closer together, as if proximity might keep them safe.

“…Take in my sister?”

The words were quiet, each one laced with venom. “You think I’d

leave

my sister with you? After this farce?”

He let the silence stretch, his sharp, inhuman gaze locked on the Treemother’s impassive face.

“So that you can what? Teach her to hate humans? Hate men? Like the rest of your wretched kind?” He shook his head, the motion sharp and violent. “I might even overlook your twisted ideals—if your Magic weren’t just as worthless as your antiquated beliefs.”

Zeke’s gaze drifted back to the girl still sprawled on the floor. “Who is she? Your star pupil? A great-great-granddaughter—fifty generations removed?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Trash.” The word left his mouth flat, emotionless. “That is what she is. Utter trash.”

“Even with my Magic sealed, even with a sneak attack and the Tree’s blessing on her side, she still ended up like this. Tell me, oh vaunted Treemother—is that the kind of ‘Magic’ you intended to teach my sister?”

He spat in disgust. To his surprise, the glob came out red and… lumpy. When had he bitten off flesh? No matter. He still had a point to make.

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“Your decisions are your own, Treemother, but so are mine. And I have no more business here. So, I’ll repeat myself once more. Unhand. Me.”

Through his entire tirade, the Treemother hadn’t moved. Even now, she showed no intention of obeying. Instead, she turned to the group of young elves behind her.

“You see it clearly now, don’t you?” she asked, her tone soft and instructive. “They are creatures ruled by negativity—anger, rage, jealousy, greed. Unfortunately, they can never rise fully above their base nature.”

Zeke watched as the elven girls nodded one after another, like obedient students in a classroom. It was infuriating. Somehow, he had become a living prop in her little morality lesson. Anti-human, anti-men—he wasn’t even sure anymore. His pounding head and aching body made it impossible to think clearly.

For the first time in years, Zeke felt truly trapped within his own flesh. His mind, usually sharp as a blade, faltered beneath the weight of exhaustion and pain. No matter how hard he tried to stay rational, fear, fury, and a dozen other emotions tangled in his chest, drowning out coherent thought.

If only he could access his Core.

If only he had even the tiniest fraction of his Mind Magic—he could sweep away all these distractions…

And then, as if the Tree itself had answered his desperate plea, the ambient Mana stirred. It surged into his Core, more welcome than rain after a long drought. Without hesitation, Zeke sent a burst of Mind Mana coursing through his body.

It hit him like a wave of ice water—sharp, cleansing, absolute. Every distraction, every stray thought drowned beneath a flood of focused clarity.

He closed his eyes and drew a steady breath. In the span of a heartbeat, he assessed everything—his situation, the Treemother’s power, the onlookers, Maya’s state.

When his eyes opened again, they were cold and clear—like mirrors of his resolve. He knew exactly what came next.

“I might be all you claim and worse, Treemother,” Zeke interjected smoothly. His voice had shifted from harsh and biting to the calm, commanding tone he reserved for formal debate. “But at the very least, my people do not break the laws of hospitality on a whim.”

He tugged lightly against his restraints, drawing attention to the way they bound his arms like iron shackles.

“Attacked. Mocked. Bound. Paraded like some curiosity…” His tone was detached, almost clinical, as if describing someone else’s suffering. “And yet, I’m called a base creature for daring to take offense at such treatment.”

His words struck true. The young elves who had moments ago looked at him as though he were a pest in their garden now wore conflicted expressions.

“I was promised safety…”

“I was promised hospitality…”

“I was promised protection…”

The elves flinched with each statement. Moments ago, drenched in blood and fury, Zeke had seemed like a savage animal. But now, calm and composed, the sight of his bloodied face and shackled form painted a very different picture—that of a wronged prisoner, humiliated and restrained.

“It seems…” Zeke concluded softly, “That your assurances hold about as much weight as your promise of mentorship.”

Zeke let the silence stretch. It had taken only a few sentences to undo the damage of his earlier, rage-fueled outburst. Now the burden was on the Treemother—to defend her actions or concede the moral high ground entirely.

Judging by what he’d seen so far, the latter was unlikely.

“My word has held true for millennia,” she said finally. “It is as unyielding as the roots of this very tree. Do not accuse me of what you fail to comprehend.”

Zeke didn’t bother replying. Instead, he shifted his arms just enough to draw attention to the bindings that still held him in place—a silent challenge:

If your word is so sacred, why am I still bound?

The Treemother sighed softly. “I told you I would release you once you calmed yourself, did I not?”

Zeke met her gaze evenly. “How much calmer do you want me to be?”

Their eyes locked. Zeke didn’t flinch, didn’t fidget. The Mind Mana flowing through him made it effortless to maintain his composure. He knew perfectly well that the longer the silence lingered, the worse she would appear.

Of course, such tactics only worked on those who cared about perception—but Zeke was certain the Treemother would not risk her pride in front of her pupils.

As expected, the bindings loosened soon after, then fell away entirely. They slithered down his body like snakes, vanishing into the ground moments later.

Zeke landed softly, bending his knees with a groan as he touched down. The motion was unnecessary—but appearances mattered. He would not waste this chance to twist the narrative further in his favor.

With a weary gesture, he gathered the blood coating his body. It lifted into the air, forming a large crimson sphere that hovered for a heartbeat before he released it. The blood splattered to the ground at his feet, leaving him clean—though disheveled.

He straightened slowly, his expression weary, like that of a prisoner finally freed. His eyes found one of the smallest girls standing behind the Treemother.

“Let’s go, Maya. We’re done here.”

Seeing her brother in such a pitiful state, Maya nodded at once and stepped forward, slipping out from among the other girls. His performance had clearly worked—not just on the elves, but on her as well. The violent scene from moments ago was already forgotten.

The wonders of selective memory.

The Treemother had allowed him to act freely until now, but just as he and Maya were about to leave, her voice stopped them.

“Wait a moment.”

Zeke turned back. His pride urged him to keep walking, but pride was no longer in control. Cold logic dictated caution. The same theatrics that had just won him the upper hand could just as easily be turned against him if he overplayed them.

“Is there something you require of me, honored Treemother?” His tone was formal, almost deferential. He had no intention of giving her another excuse to restrain him.

“…Will you honor your agreement with Matriarch Goldleaf?”

A trap.

An obvious one, at that. Denying it would hand her all the justification she needed to act against him. Clearly, she had only now realized how badly she had sabotaged the deal between him and Lady Goldleaf.

Zeke inclined his head. “Naturally. I am a man of my word.”

His calm response seemed to catch her off guard. Her brows furrowed as she pressed, “…Then you will still go to the Lowlands on our behalf?”

“I will not.”

“…”

The confusion on her face was almost comical. How could he claim to honor his word and yet refuse their cause? There was no point in dancing around it. The simplest solution was to lay out the agreement as it truly stood.

“…My agreement states that I will fight the Empire on your behalf. That much is true,” Zeke said evenly. “In return, your people promised to provide a

satisfactory

mentor for my sister.”

He watched as understanding dawned on the Treemother’s ancient face.

“Satisfactory,” he repeated, slower this time, “…by

my

standards.”

He left it at that. The unspoken words—

and you have fallen far short of them

—hung in the air without needing to be said. His earlier outburst had already made his opinion of her teachings painfully clear. There was no need to twist the knife further.

With a respectful nod, Zeke turned away, guiding Maya with him. He had seen enough of this place for one day.

Unfortunatly, it was not meant to be.