The being in the doorway stood perfectly still, its vine-woven form shimmering with latent power. Up close, Seraphina could see its body wasn't solid—it was composed of thousands of slender tendrils, constantly shifting and rearranging like a living tapestry. Its eyes held no pupils, just endless depths of swirling silver-green light that pulsed in time with the roots beneath their feet.
Lysandra made a soft, wounded sound in her throat. "You're the first," she whispered.
The being tilted its head, tendrils rustling like wind through dry grass. When it spoke, its voice resonated not through the air, but directly in their minds—a chorus of whispers that scratched at the inside of Seraphina's skull.
We were the gardeners. The tenders of the deep places.
Riven strained against the vines holding him, his earth-brown skin paling. "Then what happened?"
The being's light dimmed momentarily. We grew curious.
A shudder passed through its form, tendrils writhing as if remembering something painful. We tasted what we should not have tasted. Took what was never meant to be taken.
Seraphina's transformed dagger grew heavier in her grip, its blade now reflecting the being's eerie light. She could feel it humming against her palm—not with malice, but with terrible recognition.
The being's gaze locked onto the weapon. You carry a piece of our sin, it intoned. Forged from the first theft.
Lysandra took another step forward, her silvered eyes wide. "You're the reason the hunger exists."
The vines around Riven tightened reflexively. The being's light flickered—something almost like shame passing through its luminous eyes. We are the reason it was named. Given form. Made conscious.
A cold realisation settled over Seraphina. "The thrones. The crowns. They weren't just containing it—they were feeding it."
The being shuddered, its tendrils lashing briefly before stilling. And now it wakes elsewhere. In hands that remember only the taking, not the cost.
The ground trembled violently, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the ruined courtyard. From the north came a sound like distant thunder, only sharper and hungrier.
The being's form unravelled at the edges, and tendrils dissolved into mist. There is little time, it whispered. The roots must remember.
Lysandra reached out as the being faded. "Wait! How do we stop it?"
The last of the tendrils brushed her forehead in a fleeting caress. Ask the blade, came the final whisper. It remembers everything. Then the being was gone, and the dagger in Seraphina's hand burst into brilliant flame.
The dagger's flame burned cold against Seraphina's skin. Not the searing heat of fire, but the bone-deep chill of deep earth and older magics. The light pulsed in rhythmic waves, casting long shadows across the ruined courtyard that seemed to move independently of their sources. With each pulse, the air thickened with the scent of damp soil and something far more ancient—the iron-rich tang of primordial stone, the electric charge of the world's first storms.
Lysandra stood transfixed, her silvered eyes reflecting the dagger's unearthly glow. The vines that had restrained Riven now slithered away, retreating into cracks between the stones with what seemed like reverence. The reborn king stumbled forward, his root-like hair lashing at the air as though caught in a gale only he could feel. His earth-brown skin had taken on an ashen hue, his breathing ragged.
"It's peeling back layers," he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "Like stripping bark from a living tree."
The dagger's flame intensified, its light coalescing into distinct shapes above their heads—not quite images, not quite memories, but something in between. Seraphina's arm trembled with the effort of holding the weapon aloft, her muscles burning as though she supported the weight of centuries.
The first vision took form—a sprawling network of roots stretching beneath the earth, far vaster than the great tree's system. These roots glowed with their own inner light, their surfaces etched with runes that matched those on the thorn-bound door. Between them moved figures similar to the being they'd just encountered, their vine-woven forms tending to the roots with meticulous care.
The Gardeners, Seraphina realised before the fall.
The scene shifted abruptly. Now the roots were darker, their glow dimmed. The Gardeners clustered around one particular tendril, thicker than the others, its surface marred by a pulsing black growth. One Gardener reached out, its tendril-fingers brushing the corruption.
A mistake.
The blackness spread up its arm like ink in water, twisting its form into something jagged and ravenous. The other Gardeners recoiled, but it was too late—the corruption leapt between them like wildfire, transforming tenders into tormentors in moments.
The last untainted Gardener—the one they'd just spoken to—raised its hands in a gesture of terrible finality. Vines erupted from the earth, wrapping around its corrupted kin in a living prison.
The vision dissolved into swirling mist.
Lysandra made a choked sound, her hands flying to her branching scar. "It wasn't just curiosity," she whispered. "They were infected."
Riven's knees gave out. He caught himself on trembling arms, his root-hair digging into the earth like anchors. "And we've been using that infection as power for generations," he rasped.
The dagger's flame flared white-hot, the pain forcing Seraphina to her knees. The final vision unfolded with brutal clarity—
A line of kings and queens kneeling before the corrupted roots, their mouths stained black from drinking its sap.
A crown of thorns forged from the first infected vines. A throne grown from the prison's weakest point. And beneath it all, the original corruption—no longer a mere infection, but something awake. Something learning.
The flame extinguished with a sound like a dying breath.
Silence. Then, from the north, a sound like a thousand roots snapping at once.
The ground heaved violently, throwing them all to the stones. Where the thorn-bound door had stood, the last of the vines withered to ash, revealing a tunnel descending into blackness.
From its depths rose a familiar silver-green glow—the Gardener's final gift—a path.
And a warning.