The entrance to the Whispering Grove was a simple, unmarked stone archway hidden in a forgotten corner of the Academy grounds. There were no guards, no locks, no magic barriers. There was only a palpable silence that seemed to swallow all sound.

"I can't go in with you," Seraph said, her voice a low murmur. "The Grove… it doesn't like a warrior's spirit. It will see me as a threat." She gave Jonah a long, searching look. "Be respectful. And be honest. I get the feeling it will know if you're lying."

Jonah nodded, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm. He took a deep breath and stepped through the archway alone.

WHOOSH.

Suddenly, the world was different. The normal sounds of the Academy were gone. A deep, calm peace took over. The air was quiet and felt like very old life. Sun shone through the green leaves, making the mossy ground look green and gold. It was like stepping into a dream.

He walked down a winding, moss-covered path until he came to the center of the grove. And there it was.

The Heartwood Treant.

It was very big. It looked like a living mountain of trees and leaves. Its roots were very thick, and its branches reached high into the sky. An old face was carved into its bark. Its eyes were closed, like it was in a deep sleep. Its leaves were many shades of green. They shimmered with a soft, golden light that pulsed slowly.

Jonah stood before it, feeling young and completely insignificant. He didn't know how to begin. How do you talk to a tree that's older than your entire country?

He didn't have to.

A voice bloomed in his mind, just as the Broodmother's had. But this voice wasn't filled with sorrow or desperation. It was gentle, but immensely powerful.

[You are the little weaver,] the voice said, a sound like rustling leaves and creaking wood. [The one who smells of many souls. Why do you seek me?]

Jonah's throat felt dry. He bowed his head respectfully. "Great Treant. I… I need your help."

He began to explain. He told the ancient creature about his power, about his Progeny. He told it about the mission, about the nursery, and about the tragic, intelligent Broodmother. He spoke of the promise he had made to her as she died - to use her legacy not for destruction, but for restoration.

"I want to create a being of peace," Jonah finished, his voice filled with desperate sincerity. "A creature that can heal the scars on the world, starting with the ones the Chimeras made. But I can't. The life-giving energies are too powerful. I need a living core to anchor them. A seed of life, given willingly."

The Treant was silent for a long time, its ancient face unmoving. When its voice returned, it was intrigued, but cautious.

[The power of creation is a heavy burden, little weaver,] it said, its voice a low rumble. [To bring new life into the world is a sacred act. To use it as a tool is a great sin. Show me you are worthy of this gift. Show me your children.]

Jonah's heart pounded. This was it. The trial. He was being judged.

He took a shaky breath and nodded. One by one, he summoned his Progeny.

First, Nyx appeared, its iridescent wings shimmering. It circled the great tree once before landing silently on Jonah's shoulder, its loyalty a clear and simple thing.

Then came Maul. It appeared with an earth-shaking growl, its red eyes burning with a controlled rage. It looked at Jonah, then at the Treant. Its body seemed to ask a rough question. Jonah put a calming hand on its stony hide. The great beast became quiet. It was a loyal guard, but also scary.

Finally, Specter appeared. It was a silent ghost. It floated near Jonah. Its many eyes watched the old creature with a smart, calm look.

The Heartwood Treant examined them, its ancient consciousness a gentle but irresistible pressure. Jonah felt it probing his creations, feeling their essence, their nature.

It felt the fierce loyalty of Nyx, a simple creature of air and illusion.

It felt the volcanic rage of Maul, a power of destruction held in check only by the will of its creator.

It felt the sharp intelligence of Specter, a perfect tool of stealth and death.

The Treant's presence was not judgmental. It was… curious. It noted their health, the stability of their forms, and the unbroken bond of respect and command they shared with their weaver.

Then, the Treant's attention turned. It peered past the Progeny, its powerful gaze focusing directly on Jonah himself.

Jonah felt a pressure in his mind, but it wasn't an attack. It was an invitation. The Treant was looking into his Beast Space. He felt the ancient consciousness sweep through his inner workshop, past the genesis chambers of his living creations.

And then, it found the ghosts.

It felt the lingering sorrow and respect Jonah held for Shard, the Echo-Shell Guardian he had sacrificed in the Sunken City. It felt the phantom ache of the severed link, a wound on Jonah's soul that had never fully healed.

It felt the tragic weight of the Broodmother, whose essence was not just a prize to be used, but a legacy to be honored.

The pressure in Jonah's mind receded.

The trial was over.

The Treant's voice returned, and this time, it was filled with a rumbling approval that seemed to shake the very ground.

[You do not see them as tools,] the Treant concluded, its voice a soft whisper. [You see them as family. You grieve their loss. You honor their purpose.]

The ancient eyes carved into the tree looked at Jonah. They seemed very wise, as if they had seen thousands of years.

[This is the path of a true Guardian, not a mere maker. You are worthy.]

Jonah understood the words deeply. A small branch high in the Treant's branches broke off. It floated down slowly, spinning, with gold and green leaves falling around it.

It landed softly in Jonah's outstretched hands.

It was a simple branch, smooth and warm to the touch. But at its center, nestled amongst a cluster of new buds, was a glowing seed. It was shaped like a perfect heart, and it pulsed with a gentle, golden light, beating in time with his own.

He had his Living Core.