Beneath the roots of an ancient sycamore, in a land hidden from human eyes, lay a kingdom where the tallest creature stood no higher than a human’s thumb. In this miniature world, blades of grass were like towering trees; mushroom caps made grand rooftops; and pebbles became sturdy walls. The inhabitants—folk of nimble fingers and iridescent wings—called themselves the Rootlings, and they had built their lives around the magic that pulsed from the sycamore’s roots.
One Rootling in particular, a young girl named Taylor, was born without the wings that defined her kind. She had hair, the colour of fallen leaves and eyes with a strange, piercing curiosity. While other Rootlings fluttered gracefully from one place to another, Taylor relied on her steady, earthbound feet. She was nimble, to be sure, but her lack of wings marked her as different. Thus, others kept a polite yet puzzled distance from her.
Taylor didn’t mind. She knew every root and burrow, every path shaded by leaves, and every shortcut through the thicket. She’d even found a peculiar stone one day, a smooth, moon-grey pebble with a faint glimmer in its heart, which she kept hidden in a fold of her moss-green dress. Taylor called it her “starstone” and took it out at dusk to watch it shimmer in the fading light.
But the peace of the Rootling kingdom had begun to fray. It started with whispers of creatures lurking beyond the kingdom’s borders, beasts who stalked under the roots. No one had seen them, yet strange shadows were reported by night watchers, and rumours of encroaching darkness reached even the children’s ears. The shadows grew, and with them came whispers that the magic of the sycamore was waning.
As Taylor sat under the sycamore one morning, she overheard the elders in anxious conversation, with voices low but urgent. The Great Rootstone, the heart of their kingdom’s power, was growing dim. Without it, they’d lose not only their magic but also their home: the sycamore would shrivel, its roots no longer capable of holding their kingdom together.
That night, Taylor lay awake in her mushroom-cap bed, turning the starstone over in her hand. She had heard of the Great Rootstone, though few had seen it. It was a massive, ancient gem, hidden deep within the sycamore’s roots, and only the elders and the king were allowed to approach it. It was said to be the source of all magic in their land. She didn’t know if her small starstone had any power, but it was the only thing she had that might help.
“Perhaps,” she wondered, clutching the stone tightly, “the two stones can share their light.”
The next morning, while the kingdom still lay in shadow, Taylor set out alone, her heart steady as she descended into the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the sycamore. Moving quickly through the narrow passageways, her fingers brushed the cool, rough bark of the roots as she went. Only the faintest glimmer of her starstone lit her path.
Deeper and deeper she went, her footsteps barely a whisper on the root-bound floors. At last, she came to a cavern where a faint glow pulsed like a heartbeat, illuminating the rough walls in a spectral light. There, set upon a stone pedestal, was the Great Rootstone: its glow was feeble, barely a thread of light, as if it were struggling to hold on.
Taylor approached it slowly – her starstone clasped tightly in her hands. She had no idea what to do or if her little stone would help at all. But with home, she stepped forward; the ground beneath her began to tremble, and a growl, low and menacing, echoed from the shadows.
Then, from the darkness, emerged a creature unlike any she’d ever seen or heard of. It was part shadow, part flesh, with eyes that shone like embers and claws as sharp as rose thorns. It circled her, a cold, predatory intelligence in its eyes.
“So,” it hissed, its voice like the rustling of dead leaves. “A little Rootling has come to play hero?”
Taylor’s heart pounded, but she didn’t back away, for she knew fear would only give it power.
“I’m here to restore the Rootstone’s light,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
The creature laughed, a chilling sound that sent shivers down her spine. “And how will a wingless girl do that? The light of the Rootstone belongs to me now.”
Taylor didn’t answer. She took a deep breath and held her starstone up to the Rootstone, willing whatever light was left in it to pass from her stone to the great gem. At first, nothing happened. But then a faint glow began to seep from her starstone, pulsing gently as if in response to her heartbeat.
The creature hissed and lunged, but as it did, Taylor’s starstone flared with a sudden, blinding light, casting shadows into sharp relief. The creature screamed and fell back, retreating into the darkness, but not before it struck out, raking its claws across Taylor’s hand. She stumbled, the pain sharp and hot, but she held the starstone steady.
With a low, humming resonance filling the chamber, the Great Rootstone began to pulse again, brighter and brighter until the whole cavern shone with its warm, ancient light – once again. The darkness in the room peeled away, and with a final, agonized howl, the creature dissolved into nothingness, leaving only a faint whisper of smoke in the air.
Breathing heavily, Taylor lowered her starstone, which now glowed with a faint, almost contented light. She felt a warmth in her chest and knew that something within her had changed.
When she returned to the surface, the entire kingdom was waiting. The elders looked at her in awe, for they could see a glow about her that wasn’t there before. Even the youngest children stared with wide, wondering eyes, as though she were something out of one of their bedtime tales.
Taylor held out her starstone to the elders, but they shook their heads.
“Keep it, child,” said Elder Zay, his voice thick with gratitude. “It has chosen you as you chose us. The Rootstone’s light will not fade again as long as you walk these lands.”
That was the day when everything changed: Taylor was no longer just the wingless Rootling. Instead, she had become the keeper of the Rootstone’s light and the guardian of the sycamore’s magic, AND a legend to her people. Although she still roamed the woods and wandered the burrows, her starstone glowing in her pocket, she did so with a purpose that bound her to the kingdom in ways roots bind trees to the earth.
In the following years, no creature of shadow dared threaten the Rootling kingdom, and Taylor’s name became a promise of light. It was a reminder that even the smallest of their kind could be a protector and that the brightest magic often lay hidden in the most unexpected places.
