THE FOREST OF JADE

It was hot, as it always was in the Nār…
A heavy heat that clung to the skin. Within the Jade Forest, silence was never truly complete.

The Sepulcher Trees, whose leaves shimmered beneath the sun with a sapphire glow, whispered secrets endlessly, through the wind, or perhaps by their own will.

At the center of the path, before the Sepulcher Tree beneath which her mother had once been buried, the Satna walked barefoot, her dress stained with earth, holding her father’s manuscript between trembling fingers.

She was not ready. No one ever truly was.

Her father, KI’YA Olafin Dióle, was dead, leaving behind a gaping void within the hearts of the Alkeb and a kingdom now ruled by YA Jalãni Dióle, his grandson.

More than a hundred cycles had passed since then.

She had not cried. Not yet.
The tears would come later, with time… or perhaps never at all.

For in those days, tribal wars were commonplace throughout the kingdom. Her son, her nephew, her brother, her friends, her lover, all had perished beneath enemy spears and sabers.

On battlefields.
Or through betrayal.

A dagger blade slipped quietly between the ribs.
A pillow pressed against a sleeping face.
Or the hand of the very one who had once sworn loyalty and protection.

The trunk of her mother’s Sepulcher Tree seemed alive.
It pulsed gently, almost in rhythm with her own heart.

She stepped closer, brushed it softly with her fingertips, then pressed one ear against the bark, hoping to hear her mother’s voice one final time.

But the wood remained silent…

The Satna knew her hours were numbered. Somewhere beyond the forest, she could already feel the Mamake approaching.

They had come to reclaim their lands… their palace… their throne.

And truly, who could blame them?

Even had she wished to stop them, she no longer possessed the words to do so.

And even then… would they spare her life?
Or would they leave her hanging from the branch of a tree by the neck?

So, one final time, the Satna performed her Mirroring.

She closed her eyes, placed her second hand upon her mother’s Sepulcher Tree, and let her endokã wander freely through the ancient wood.

Her warm, gentle energy rooted itself into the earth, surged across every branch and leaf, which immediately turned electric blue beneath her touch.

Her irises glowing blue, she smiled faintly as a single tear rolled down her cheek the moment she finally recognized a lingering fragment of her mother’s endokã buried deep within one of the roots.

— Ah… you are still here, Mother… whispered softly the Satna.

She stepped back, breaking her connection with the tree.

Instantly, the leaves faded back to their dull blue hue.

Then she turned upon herself.

Once.
Twice.
Three times.

Her movements were supple, slow, and sincere.

This time, her Mirroring no longer flowed into her mother’s Sepulcher Tree. Instead, she released it into the wind itself.

The Satna continued spinning gracefully. Her gestures became wider, softer, almost ritualistic, as though her body obeyed an invisible logic older than memory.

Around her, vines and branches began imitating her movements.

Her endokã shimmered across the leaves and the forest floor.

And she danced for entire hours… perhaps even for a whole orbée. Without knowing the steps. Without being able to stop.

The entire forest seemed alive.

When the Mamake finally reached the palace of Zanjãra and entered the Jade Forest, their warriors discovered Olafin’s Manuscript abandoned before the Sepulcher Tree of ZA Fëana Dióle.

And among the most superstitious warriors, some swore that for an entire Moon, the wind itself refused to blow straight. That the vines twisted through the air as though possessed, lashing the faces of all who dared approach ZA Fëana’s Sepulcher Tree, shaping grotesque and terrifying forms within the mist.

Certain djēle claim that Satna Nãla never truly left that forest, becoming instead the very Will of the Jade Forest itself…

Others attribute to her the birth of the legend of the Moon Tigers, spirits said to appear near homes to announce either death or birth.

But one thing remains certain:

The forest never forgets.