“It’s not every day a set of triplets is born from the Dream,” the Pale Tree says, a small smile curling her wooden lips.
The temporary platform beneath us creaks as I shift my weight from foot to foot. We stand high in the boughs, just below her face, close enough that I can hear the faint groan of bark when she moves.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we waited higher up and had the new sapling brought to us?” I ask as the wardens take their places one step down, hands resting on their sword hilts.
“I feel this may be an important moment,” Mother replies. “I want to be present as they emerge. Triplets have always helped so many with their missions.”
Her gaze drops to the Arborist walking toward the pod below.
“We’re about to help the shell spread apart, Mother,” the Head Arborist calls.
The Pale Tree straightens, fingers clasped before her. I have served as her chamberlain for two years. I have seen her face untouched by fear in the shadow of Zhaitan and in councils with all the races of Tyria.
I have never seen her this nervous.
Below us, a dozen sylvari have gathered on the boughs, faces tilted up: courtiers, wardens, curious saplings. All waiting to welcome three new siblings to the world.
My eyes return to the pod.
It does not match the ones flanking it. Most pods are dark green, or yellow‑gold and orange for those born to the day. This one is a deep, bruised violet—almost midnight blue. A color that whispers of dusk. Of night.
The Head Arborist raises a hand, and the Nursing Arborists Namil and Denova move to either side of the pod. Even from here I can see the seam along its length already straining, edges tugging apart as if impatient.
They press their hands into the living shell and begin to pull, slow and careful. The seam splits. Fluid splashes out over the boughs below.
It is not clear.
Even at this distance I can see the color of it—too dark, too thick.
One of the nurses jerks back, gagging. They double over and retch, their breakfast spattering the bark. The other grimaces but holds, fingers sunk into the pod’s flesh as the Head Arborist steps in to help. Together, they wrench the shell wider.
The lid peels up and to the side.
What pours out is not a Sylvari.
Thick, clotted masses slide free and slap wetly onto the boughs—a heap of dark pulp and half‑formed shapes that should never have been given the chance to breathe. The smell hits even us: sour, rotten, wrong.
Usually, this means there was no one inside. That the Dream’s promise failed before it could take root.
Usually.
I turn to Mother, already opening my mouth to suggest we withdraw and let the Arborists do their sad work, when every warden on the platform draws their sword as one.
Steel sings. I look back down.
The refuse is standing.
Two shapes rise from the heaps, dragging strings of viscera behind them, limbs jerking like puppets on invisible threads. Withered heads swivel, creaking, jaw‑wood clacking as their teeth tap together in a slow, unnerving rhythm. A wet, sucking noise seeps from somewhere inside them with every shuddering breath.
Around the base of the platform, sylvari stagger back. Some cry out. One begins to wail, a thin keen of horror that cuts through the creaking of the branches.
Behind the shambling things, the pod’s cover finally tears free and drops aside, nearly striking the nurse still retching on hands and knees.
Inside the hollow, something moves.
Eyes—violet, luminous and cold—lift to meet mine. They flick across the gathered crowd, measuring, cataloging, learning.
A clawed hand—bark blackened like wood left too long in the heart of a fire—hooks over the pod’s edge. The figure hauls themself out, sliding their feet forward and dropping heavily to hands and knees on the bough.
They rise.
Their body is charred wood and wet shadow, bark cracked and seeping sluggish streams of dark fluid that trail down like blood that never learned how to be red. Purple flowers bloom through their hair and along their shoulders, petals the same shade as their eyes.
Those eyes lock onto the Pale Tree.
When they speak, their voice is a rasping hiss through charcoal‑scarred lips.
“Mother.”
The word curls up into a half‑smile. Almost a grin.
For the first time since I have known her, the Pale Tree recoils. She takes a step back, bark shivering, and whispers, just loud enough for me to hear:
“The Night has sent us a gift.”
An instant later her composure returns, smooth as polished sapwood. She lets the movement blur into a simple misstep on the platform and lifts one hand in a graceful signal.
“Nurses,” she calls, voice steady, carrying over the horrified murmurs. “Clean, dress, and name the newly born sylvari.”
Around us, the triplet’s first attendants move to obey.
Below us, the corpses still sway.
And in the center of it all, dripping, smiling, the child of night stands beneath his Mother’s gaze.
