Merek hung at the back of the group, eyeing the overgrown stone arch with growing unease. The fifteen of them had been walking for hours, branches slapping their faces, roots grabbing at their ankles. His side still ached where that one of the camp folks had caught him with his fist during their escape.

  "I still don't get why we're going back there," he muttered, shifting the stolen bow on his shoulder. "Rellan abandoned it for a reason."

  Drav, their self-appointed leader since the escape, shot him a dark look. "Because we've got nowhere else to go, you idiot. The forest will kill us before we reach any settlement."

  "But Rellan—" Merek started.

  "Rellan's dead," Drav snapped. "And would have been left to rot in that camp."

  An older bandit named Joreth cleared his throat. "Rellan didn't abandon the temple because he was scared. He saw something there." His voice dropped. "The night before we left, I was on watch. Saw him come out of the lower chambers, white as death. Hands shaking. Never seen him scared before."

  The group fell silent as they pushed through the last stretch of undergrowth. The temple loomed before them—ancient stone half-swallowed by vines, its once-grand entrance now a crumbling maw of broken pillars and sagging archways.

  "Looks worse than when we left," someone whispered.

  Merek had to agree. The stone seemed darker, damper. Ivy throttled the archways like strangling hands, and the leaves whispered in a wind that didn't touch his skin. The air felt wrong—heavy and sweet, like fruit beginning to rot.

  "We need shelter," Drav insisted, though his voice had lost some of its certainty. "We'll stay in the upper chambers. The ones we used before."

  "What about the lower chamber?" Thiss, the youngest of them, piped up. "The one with the fancy door Rellan forbade us from opening?"

  "Why would we go there?" Merek asked.

  Thiss grinned, revealing a chipped front tooth. "If there's magic, there's treasure. Rellan kept us out because he wanted it for himself."

  "Or because it wasn't safe," Joreth muttered.

  Drav hesitated, then squared his shoulders. "We'll check the main hall first. Make sure it's secure. Then we can debate treasure hunting."

  They moved forward in tight formation, weapons ready. The entrance hall was exactly as they'd left it—stone benches, cold fire pits, scattered remnants of their previous occupation. But something felt different. The walls seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light.

  "Does anyone else feel that?" Merek asked, pressing his palm against the nearest wall. He yanked it back immediately. "The walls feel... soft. Like they're breathing."

  "Don't be ridiculous," Drav scoffed, but he kept his hands firmly at his sides.

  They moved deeper into the temple, their footsteps echoing strangely. The sound didn't bounce back cleanly—it seemed to be absorbed, muffled by the very air.

  "Let's check the storerooms," Drav ordered, trying to maintain control. "We need to see what supplies might still be here."

  As they approached the corridor leading to the inner chambers, Joreth suddenly grabbed Drav's arm. "Wait. Look at the ward."

  The runic circle carved into the floor—a protection ward Rellan had maintained—was still there. But now a jagged crack ran through its center. The remaining runes pulsed with a feeble blue light, like a dying heartbeat.

  "It's trying to hold something in," Joreth whispered, backing away. "This wasn’t Rellan’s work—he must've found it already in place. I think he cracked it open... and then tried to patch it back up."

  Merek felt cold sweat trickle down his spine. "I vote we find somewhere else. Now."

  But Drav was already stepping over the cracked ward, drawn forward by greed or foolish pride. "Don't be cowards. Whatever scared Rellan is long gone. And I intend to find out what he was hiding from us."

  The others followed reluctantly, weapons drawn against an enemy they couldn't name. Merek hesitated at the threshold, watching the feeble pulse of the runic ward growing dimmer with each beat.

  Like a dying heart giving its final warning.

  The inner door towered before them—ancient wood that shouldn't have survived centuries, yet stood unrotted. Patterns of interlocking leaves and spiraling branches covered its surface, carved by hands not meant to die.

  "This is it," Drav whispered, running his fingers over the silvery runes that pulsed along the door's edge. "Whatever Rellan feared is behind here."

  Thiss pushed forward, war pick in hand. "Then let's crack it open."

  "Wait," Joreth warned. "Those are Sylvan runes. Forest magic. We shouldn't—"

  The first strike of Thiss's pick sent a shudder through the entire chamber. The second strike landed harder, and a hairline crack appeared in the ancient wood. Something thick and golden began to seep through—not sap as they knew it, but something luminous and unnaturally warm.

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  "What is that?" Merek stepped back as the substance dripped to the floor, steaming slightly where it pooled.

  Thiss struck again, and the crack widened. More of the golden sap bled from the wound in the door, running in rivulets down the carved patterns. It felt wrong—too warm, too alive—like blood from a living thing.

  Joreth started coughing, a deep hacking sound that echoed through the chamber. He doubled over, hands on his knees. "Something's... in the air," he gasped between coughs.

  "Just dust," Drav insisted, though he looked uncertain. "Thiss, finish it."

  The younger bandit grinned and swung the pick one final time. He muttered a cantrip—a simple unlocking spell he'd learned from watching Rellan—and pressed his palm against the bleeding door.

  The seal groaned. The golden sap pulsed once, twice—then the door swung inward with a sound like a dying breath.

  A burst of pale green mist exploded outward, enveloping the closest bandits in a cloud of fine, glittering spores. They stumbled back, coughing and wiping at their faces, but the damage was done. The spores clung to clothing, skin, settled in lungs.

  "What the hell was that?" someone shouted, voice already roughening.

  Drav, covered in the fine powder but trying to maintain control, stepped toward the open doorway. "Grab torches. We're going in."

  Beyond the broken seal lay a spiraling staircase, descending into darkness. The steps were slick with the same golden sap that had bled from the door, making their descent treacherous. The air grew thicker, sweeter, with each step downward.

  They emerged into the Heartroot Chamber—once a sacred space, now a nightmare of twisted life. Fungal growths erupted from every surface, tangled and pulsing with sickly light. Bioluminescent webs stretched between pillars, catching their torch flames in patterns of reflected blue and green. At the center of the chamber stood what must have once been a guardian statue, now collapsed and overgrown with veined mold that throbbed like a massive heart.

  "Gods," Merek whispered, torch held high. "What is this place?"

  Thiss, who'd been first through the door and taken the full blast of spores, suddenly staggered. His eyes had a glazed, unfocused look. "Can you hear it? The singing?"

  "There's no singing," Drav snapped, but his voice wavered.

  Joreth's torch illuminated a far wall, and he let out a strangled cry. "There—in the vines!"

  They all turned. Embedded in the wall of writhing fungal growth was a humanoid shape—tall and slender, with remnants of bark-like skin visible where the fungus hadn't consumed it completely. Its chest cavity gaped open, hollow and lined with glowing filaments. The face—what remained of it—was frozen in an expression of ancient sorrow.

  "That's... that's a Silvan," Joreth whispered. "The guardian of this place."

  "The Grovekeeper," Thiss murmured, his voice eerily calm as he stared at the half-eaten corpse fused into the living wall. "It remembers its name."

  The Grovekeeper's corrupted shell twitched once as the bandits stepped too close. A pulse echoed through the leyline below. The parasite woke. It did not roar. It grew.

  "We should take what we can and leave," Merek said, backing away from the Silvan corpse. "This place isn't right."

  Joreth nodded vigorously, already edging toward the stairs. "Rellan was right to seal this. We need to go. Now."

  Drav scowled, though sweat beaded on his forehead. "Don't be cowards. Look around—there must be something valuable."

  Thiss swayed slightly, pressing fingers to his temple. "My head feels... strange." His voice came out thick, as though speaking through mud. "Like there's something moving inside."

  "You're just scared," Drav snapped, but his eyes lingered on Thiss's face.

  The younger bandit's skin had taken on a greenish pallor. A thin rivulet of fluid—not blood, but something darker, thicker—trickled from his nostril. Spores, fine as dust, puffed from the corners of his eyes with each blink.

  "I don't feel right," Thiss mumbled. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the stone floor.

  Joreth rushed to help him, but froze when Thiss convulsed violently. "Something's wrong with him! We need to—"

  Thiss screamed—a high, animal sound of pure agony. He clutched at his throat, fingernails drawing blood as he clawed at his own skin. His jaw distended, stretching impossibly wide as he vomited a stream of writhing green tendrils. The vines spilled from his mouth, curling and twisting as they sought purchase on the stone floor.

  "Run!" Merek shouted, shoving past the others toward the staircase. "Everyone out!"

  The chamber erupted into chaos. Bandits scrambled for the exit, shoving and trampling each other in their panic. Drav stood frozen, watching as Thiss's body contorted, bones cracking as something pushed against his skin from within.

  A bandit named Fen reached the staircase first, but never made it up the first step. Roots shot down from the ceiling, wrapping around his neck and limbs. They yanked him upward with terrifying speed, his scream cut short as the vines constricted.

  Behind them, the embedded Silvan corpse pulsed with sickly light. Its hollow chest cavity expanded and contracted, the movement sending waves through the fungal growths covering the walls. With each beat, clouds of spores released into the air, glittering like malevolent stars in the torchlight.

  Three bandits lay on the floor now, bodies contorting as the infection spread through them. Their skin split in places, revealing not blood but green-black fibers weaving through muscle and bone. Their eyes clouded over with fungal films.

  Merek reached the stairs, Joreth right behind him. They scrambled upward, slipping on the golden sap that now flowed more freely, as if the temple itself was bleeding.

  "Wait!" Drav called after them, finally breaking from his trance. "Don't leave me!"

  He turned to follow, but Thiss's hand shot out, grabbing his ankle. Drav looked down in horror. Thiss wasn't Thiss anymore. His jaw hung at an unnatural angle, dislocated to accommodate the mass of vines still spilling from his throat. His eyes were milky white, threaded with green filaments.

  Joreth and Merek reached the doorway, bursting into the upper chamber. Behind them, Drav's screams echoed up the stairwell, abruptly cut short.

  "Seal it!" Joreth gasped. "We have to seal the door!"

  But it was too late. The bandits who had fallen first were rising again. Their movements were jerky, puppeted by something within. Fungal growths erupted from their eyes and mouths. They still wore the clothes they'd died in, now stained with the black ichor leaking from their seams.

  "The exit!" Merek shouted, shoving Joreth toward the temple entrance. "Run!"

  They fled through the crumbling halls, pursued by the shuffling forms of their former companions. Outside, the forest seemed to hold its breath. Joreth stumbled, falling to his knees.

  "I can't..." he gasped, clutching his chest. "Something's in my lungs."

  Merek hesitated, then saw the fine spores puffing from Joreth's mouth with each labored breath. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and ran.

  He crashed through the undergrowth, branches whipping his face. The spores tickled the back of his throat, but terror drove him forward. Behind him, the temple pulsed with unholy light, beating in time with the Grovekeeper's corrupted heart.

  Merek ran blindly, unaware of the thin tendrils already spreading beneath his skin, unaware he carried the infection with every desperate step into the forest