There it was.
The ridge, blanketed in emerald moss and dew‑beaded ferns, seemed to bow aside, unveiling the vast horizon. The Tree of Life rose like a living continent beyond the gap—too immense, too ancient, too uncompromisingly alive to be captured in any tapestry or tavern tale. From their vantage, its colossal trunk resembled a range of soft‑barked cliffs streaked with rivers of sap that glinted pale gold. Roots as thick as city avenues tunneled through the valley floor, some plunging back into the soil, others arching skyward to form natural bridges draped in orchids. Every breath of wind set loose silver motes from the moss, so the air itself shimmered.
