The next morning, Jon led Sam into the deeper forest, past glowing mushrooms and whispering trees, until they reached a serene glade, where a figure awaited them.
An old elven spiritfolk named Silanor, garbed in robes woven with living vines, bowed respectfully. His presence calmed the air itself.
Silanor (calmly):
"I have been waiting for the one who walks with kindness in his soul."
Sam blinked.
Sam:
"Me?"
Silanor:
"Yes. The Spirit Arts are not born of strength or wrath, but of harmony. You, Samwell Tarly, are a vessel waiting to awaken."
And so began Sam's training.
Each day he meditated beneath the Spirit Tree, letting the life of the forest flow into him. He learned how to feel the heartbeat of the land, how to sense the emotions of living things, and how to draw gentle energy from nature itself. The spirits—once distant—began to approach him, curious, playful, and warm.
Jon watched from afar, proud of his friend. Sam, always underestimated, was now becoming something far more—something rare.
Benjen, too, was thriving. He'd built his own treehouse near the outer forest border and had started patrolling alongside Spiritfolk warriors, using his heightened senses and Northern experience to scout and defend the realm.
By the time the moon waxed full, Jon stood beside the village's sacred pond, watching his family and friends.
Jon (to himself):
"They were brought here for a reason."
And though he didn't yet know what that reason was, he felt in his soul that the winds of fate were once again stirring—and that the peace they'd found might not last forever.