Maxwell

  “The new year is upon us, and for the first time since I met Sarah, I stand alone to greet it.

  It is a strange thing indeed, to be away from one’s family. I used to believe that soldiers who kept trinkets or letters from their partners on their persons when going out for battle were weak of mind and spirit. This belief was not borne of resentment, of course. I simply could not understand the magnitude of the compulsion. That such wholehearted devotion could exist upon the face of this world.

  Now, I would give anything to have but a lock of Sarah’s hair in my possession, or some other equally trite token by which to remember her. And so, my folly is brought into sharp clarity. There truly is no greater force in this world than a man’s love for his wife... save perhaps for a man’s love of his children.” - Writings of the Sword-Saint, 2156 Post-Separation (PS).

  The door closed behind us with a gentle click, sealing us away from the tense atmosphere of the evening.

  The room before us was simple yet inviting. A deep hearth casting warm light against dark wood furnishings, two plush chairs seated in quiet companionship, and a single bed, ample enough for two, but clearly intended for one. A modest window, just large enough to fit my head, revealed a narrow slice of the mist-laden night beyond.

  The guards had wasted no time in escorting us here following the revelation of an attack in the lower levels of the city. As fate would have it, the Forum quarters had its own section for housing guests, branching off to either side of the banquet hall.

  There, we had been granted a room by the Elders, for leisure and sleep until the meeting readjourned the following morning.

  Presently, Amelie let slip a deep breath, and moved to unfasten the pins in her hair, allowing it to fall freely down the slope of her back. “Well,” she said, running a hand through her now loose curls. “That could have gone worse.”

  I raised a brow, rubbing at the tension in my neck. “Could it?” I said. “We’re stranded in a city built on secrets, sitting on the edge of a war no one’s prepared for, and there’s an insidious monster creeping about, looking for a new body to claim. I don’t know how much worse you’d like it to be.”

  A smirk tugged at the corners of her lips, though it did little to mask the worry in her eyes. “You did not make a fool of yourself in front of the Elders today. I would call that a small victory.”

  “Well, I’m glad my survival instincts managed to impress at least one person,” I said.

  She shook her head and stepped toward the hearth, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames. The glow turned her features sharp, the union of light and shadow writ plain upon her troubled face. “The Seedling,” she murmured, almost to herself. “If it is truly here, then it will have already chosen a host...”

  I crossed my arms, seating myself upon a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. “You think the explosion is connected?”

  “Of course.”

  I sighed, letting my head fall back. “Great. That means whatever’s happening down there is likely only the beginning.”

  For a moment, all that remained was the crackling of the fire, a steady rhythm that echoed the unspoken fears between us. The weight of the day pressed upon my chest, exhaustion creeping into my limbs. Yet even as sleep beckoned, a hum of unease lingered in my mind, a quiet reminder to remain ever vigilant.

  I turned toward the window, seeking distraction. Outside, the mist was thick and unyielding, swirling unnaturally against the glass as though it were a living shroud. The sight was both mesmerizing and unsettling, a stirring reminder of the hidden figures and veiled threats that might lurk beyond the fragile barrier of our refuge.

  Amelie joined me by the window, her profile softened by the pale glow of the moon. “We need to rest,” she said quietly, her voice barely rising above the gentle murmur of the fire. “Tomorrow, we will face whatever awaits us. But tonight... tonight, we unwind.”

  I nodded, though my eyes yet lingered on the shifting fog. “Rest,” I echoed, as though the word was foreign to me, a strange term bereft of meaning.

  A few minutes passed in silent contemplation, before Amelie turned to offer me a small, reassuring smile. “Come on, Maxwell. Let us try for sleep. We will be of no use if we are both too weary to think.”

  And so, we approached the bed, a solitary expanse of rumpled sheets and promised comforts. No thought was spared for our clothes; we were both much too tired to undress, and so down we went, with Amelie settling first, hunting for a comfortable sleeping position amidst the fabrics of her ballgown. I lay down beside her, close enough to feel the gentle rhythm of her breath, a delicate counterpoint to the chaos of my thoughts.

  As I closed my eyes, the image of the mist beyond the window faded into dreams. Yet even in sleep, the sense of foreboding remained, ensuring that whatever rest I found was fleeting, and short-lived.

  However, just as I teetered on the edge of deeper slumber, the firelight of the dwindling hearth suddenly leaped and twirled across the room, congruent with the sound of the door crashing open.

  At once, I sprang upright, my heart pounding fiercely in my chest. Amelie likewise rose in violent fashion, her hand going for the dagger by her bed. Before any words could be exchanged, a shadowed figure stepped forth from the darkness, framed by the light of a lantern.

  The stranger was clad in a long, dark coat, his features partially obscured by a hood that cast his face into shadows. His presence was both deliberate and disquieting, a purposeful intrusion into our private sanctuary. On his back, a cloth-wrapped sword, fastened by a leather strap.

  “Y-You!” I said, recognizing him as the man from the banquet, the one that had been watching us from across the hall.

  The stranger’s eyes, half-hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, held a glint of something unreadable. Amusement, perhaps, or calculation. He took a single, measured step forward, the lantern in his hand casting wavering light over his rugged chin.

  “Amelie,” he said, the syllables rolling out as if testing the weight of her name. “It’s been some time.”

  “Who are-” she started, only to give a startled gasp as realization took hold. “... Cliff? Is that you?”

  The stranger paused for a moment before lifting a hand to pull down his hood, unveiling a face that was simultaneously familiar yet shrouded in mystery. His features, etched by countless journeys, bore the marks of a life well-traveled, while his piercing blue eyes seemed at once infinitely older than the rest of his appearance would suggest.

  “Yes, Princess,” he said at last. “It’s me. You’ve been causing quite the ruckus these last few weeks.”

  The use of that title - “Princess” - seemed to stir something deep within Amelie. Her hand, still hovering near her dagger, relaxed slightly, and her posture changed. For a moment, she seemed caught between two conflicting emotions, before one won out over the other, and she rushed from the bed to the stranger’s side to envelope him in a bone-crushing hug.

  “Cliff...” she whispered into his robes, pushing her forehead against his chest.

  The man did not seem surprised at the treatment. If he was, he masked it well. An earnest smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he wrapped an arm about her waist, returning the hug with mindful solemnity.

  “It’s good to see you again, little one,” he said. “You’ve grown into quite the woman, I see. Tales of your exploits have traveled far, to reach even my ears.”

  “I have done nothing noteworthy,” she said, still with her head pressed against him. “I have been selfish, and narrow-minded, and stubborn, and brought shame upon my family and our house and-”

  “Shush now,” Cliff said, running a tender hand across the top of her head. “I’ll entertain no such talk from you. And besides, time is short, Princess. The city is under attack, and we must flee while we still can.”

  “Flee?” Amelie said, leaning back now to look at him. “What for? The minor disturbance in the lower markets?”

  “It’s no minor disturbance, Princess,” Cliff said. “Trust me. All hell is about to break loose, and if we don’t make ourselves scarce, we’ll be caught dead-center in it.”

  The urgency in his tone brooked no argument. I saw the weight of it act upon Amelie. The way her eyes narrowed, her features assuming a determined mien. Whoever this man was, it was clear she valued his opinion greatly.

  “Gather what little you can. Clothes, essentials,” he continued, glancing around as if listening for some hidden noise me and Amelie was not attuned to. “I’d recommend a change of attire too. It’ll be difficult to run around in those pretty ballroom costumes of yours.”

  Amelie’s eyes flicked to the wooden chest by the bed. “Very well,” she said, her tone steadying into resolve. “I suppose practicality must win over elegance tonight.” With swift movements, she began unpacking what meager belongings we had, bringing forth her wine-red garment with the straps and buckles and the brown traveling cloak.

  She cared not for modesty as she shrugged herself out of the emerald dress. It fell to her feet in unceremonious mounds, revealing white-linen undergarments and pale skin marred in various places by cuts and scrapes.

  I averted my eyes to avoid staring, even though we had seen each other fully exposed on multiple occasions. Cliff’s use of her formal title had reminded me of just who Amelie truly was. A noble, from a most illustrious and powerful house, with acreages of land that measured in the obscene. As such, to see her in such a vulnerable state suddenly seemed inappropriate, for all manner of reasons.

  Cliff, on the other hand, showed not the slightest interest in her nudity. His eyes remained vigilant, locked firmly upon the open doorway leading out of the room. The white-knuckled grip he held on the lantern spoke to a deeper unrest masked beneath the guise of composure.

  It did not take long for us to pack our belongings, and soon enough, we were moving swiftly down the many hallways of the Forum quarters, seeing neither guest nor guard as we went. There was an unnatural stillness to the place, as though the bark- lined walls themselves were holding their breath in anticipation of some greater crescendo.

  Why were we not alerted? I thought as our group passed darkened rooms and silent alcoves. And where did all the people go? I could’ve sworn there were guards posted up in this sector when we were escorted to our rooms yesterday...

  No answer seemed forthcoming. And so, I kept my thoughts to myself as we approached the door separating the living quarters from the larger gathering hall beyond. Someone had left it slightly ajar, allowing a thin stream of light to spill through the crack.

  The hall beyond should have been alive with movement. Guards stationed at their posts, servants hurrying about, the low murmur of late-night discussions between the city’s elite. But there was nothing. No voices, no footsteps, not even the distant sound of shifting furniture.

  Cliff turned his head, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Stay behind me.”

  With great care, he nudged the door open, allowing entry into the gathering hall. The chamber was dimly lit by scattered lanterns, casting dark shapes upon the walls that danced like apparitions at the flickering light. Remnants of the evening’s council meeting yet lingered. Half-empty goblets of wine, a discarded cloak draped over the back of a chair, various papers strewn about the tables.

  But there were no people.

  “Where is everyone?” I said, my eyes darting about the interior in fits and jolts.

  Cliff gave no reply. Instead, he stepped forwards, slow and deliberate, his boots making no sound upon the woven floorboards. Amelie followed, her fingers grazing the hilt of her dagger. I lingered just behind, my senses screaming at me that something was terribly amiss with this place.

  Then I saw it.

  A single goblet lay on its side near the head of an adjacent table, its contents spilled across the floor. A dark stain spread outward, glistening in the lantern-light. At first, I believed it to be wine. Then I saw the smears, the uneven pattern, the way it trailed toward the far side of the room.

  Not wine. Blood.

  Cliff let slip a sigh, his gaze sweeping the chamber. His grip on the lantern tightened. “We’re too late,” he said.

  A shiver ran down my spine. Too late for what?

  Amelie took another step forward, her breath shallow. “Cliff,” she whispered. “What happened here?”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He scanned the room, his expression grim. “A cleansing.”

  The word sent a jolt of fear through me. I turned, glancing back toward the hallway we had emerged from. The unnatural stillness, the absence of guards, the eerie quiet... it all clicked into place.

  This was no empty hall.

  It was a silent massacre. A scene of hushed slaughter.

  “We can’t afford to linger here,” Cliff said, already striding across the room with rousing boldness. “There’s a hidden exit in the Elders’ Quarters. I’ve seen it used before. It’ll take us down to the lower levels, where, Stonefather willing, we’ll be able to ride the elevator down to the camp.”

  “The elevator?” Amelie said with some hesitation. “I would not be so certain. It seems too obvious an escape route.”

  “Oh, I’m fully expecting it to be guarded,” Cliff said, a morbid smirk upon his lips. He left the rest unspoken, the austere silence pregnant with grim implication. It seemed a satisfying enough answer for Amelie. Perhaps she knew something of his fighting prowess that lent credence to his words.

  Without further delay, we turned away from the quiet of the hall and made our way down the labyrinthine corridors of the Forum quarters. They were as abandoned as the rest, doors flung open on either side, revealing disheveled rooms vacated in a hurry. Whatever force had invaded this place had inspired great fear and chaos.

  Every turn heightened our unease. The lingering scent of stale incense, the creak of wood underfoot, and the distant, almost imperceptible murmur of something nondescript shifting in the darkness.

  Cliff led us with quiet urgency, his lantern’s glow slicing through the gloom and revealing cryptic carvings on the walls. “This way,” he said, gesturing toward a narrow archway that promised passage to the Elders’ Quarters. “The hidden exit is close. Stay alert.”

  The corridor twisted unexpectedly, leading us to a wider hallway flanked by a series of long-abandoned offices and storage rooms. At the end, a grand, iron-bound door with intricate filigree partially hidden behind a faded portrait of what I assumed to be a long-departed Elder.

  “This is it,” Cliff said, producing a small, tarnished key from within the folds of his robes. With deliberate care, he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  A sweeping vista awaited beyond, opening into an expansive view of the city set against darkened clouds and iridescent stars. For a moment, I was tempted to marvel at its beauty, at the grandeur of the vast terraces and belvederes clinging to the enormous trunks, supporting entire neighborhoods and districts lit by lantern-light and campfires.

  But then, I noticed the destruction.

  Several homes and buildings near the lower platforms were now entirely ablaze, lighting up the night like beacons of flame. Thick, acrid columns of smoke spiraled upward, twisting around the mighty tree-trunks as if clawing at the heavens from the hand of some wooded giant. The faint rumbling of collapsing structures, followed closely by muted screams of anguish.

  “Stonefather protect us!” Amelie gasped, slipping for a moment out of her usual stonehearted persona to give a genuine exclamation of horror. “They are rending the city asunder!”

  “... This is no Marauder attack,” Cliff said, narrowing his eyes. “I’m certain of that now. There’s other forces at play. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been able to breach the Ivory Dawn’s defenses.”

  “What of the people?” Amelie said, turning to him with a quickness. “We must help them quell the flames! Before it spreads further!”

  “We’ll do no such thing.” Cliff shook his head. “Remember who you are. And more importantly, who you’re traveling with.”

  “Who I am-” Amelie started, before realization dawned on her. Her eyes promptly widened in surprise. “Wait... You know?”

  “I know,” Cliff grunted, setting the lantern down. “Why do you think I came to this place?”

  They were talking about me, of course. About the sigil on my back, and the powers that now lay concealed within my flesh. But just as I was about to voice my opinion on the matter, a tremendous surge of Astra suddenly erupted from one of the lower platforms, landing as a stormwall upon my arcane senses.

  The raw power radiated upward in a shimmering cascade of light, momentarily transforming the chaos below into a vision of molten brilliance. Then, as if summoned by divine decree, the energy coalesced into a searing bolt of lightning that slashed through the darkness, striking the platform with such ferocity, it shook the ancient tree to its very roots.

  The force of the impact could be felt even here, as a tremor rippled through the platform beneath our feet. Dust and splinters cascaded from the wooden eaves, and for a breathless moment, I feared the entire walkway might collapse under the strain.

  “... What in the world was that!?” I rasped, shaking off the strange tingling sensation that now crawled up my spine.

  Cliff’s expression was unreadable, but his fingers had gone white against the hilt of his cloth-wrapped sword. “Looks like Hadrian has decided to join the fight,” he said. “The enemy must be fearsome indeed.”

  An image of the lackadaisical youth flashed before my mind’s eye, a reflection wrought in molten gold and inky-black curls. Hadrian Tarwen, son of the Stormbringer, heir to the throne of Carthal. Could a person such as him really possess a talent for Wielding so fearsome, it could produce a strike like that?

  Amelie stepped forward, disrupting my thoughts. "We must reach the camp," she declared. "If we are to organize a resistance and protect the citizens of Fogveil.”

  “Again, we’ll do no such thing,” Cliff said, his patience slipping. “I’m not here to protect the city. I’m here to protect you, despite the fact that you are the daughter of my employer’s greatest rival. Fogveil can burn twice over for all I care.”

  Amelie’s eyes flashed with a mixture of indignation and fury. “But what of the people?” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “They’re suffering, Cliff! They need our help!”

  “Amelie,” he said, his tone harsh. “There’s a larger game afoot here, one whose scope lies far beyond the politics of these streets. And like it or not, you and your friend are pieces in that game. Pieces whose purpose does not involve saving a city already lost to chaos.”

  “But-”

  “No buts, or maybes, or perhaps. I’ve told you what’s going to happen, and you will listen.”

  Amelie looked at him as if struck, her mouth pressed into a thin line. In the distance, the roar of flames and the groan of wood continued unabated. I felt the weight of our predicament fully then. Each of us standing at a crossroads between duty and survival, hope and despair.

  At last, Amelie drew breath once more, visibly steading herself.

  “Then we must move,” she said, burying her frustration. “Though know that I will hold you in contempt for this decision.”

  Cliff nodded, seemingly at peace with that outcome. “Follow me,” he said, leaving no room for further argument.

  And so, we set off from the relative shelter of the Forum quarters, descending a staircase that hugged the side of the colossal trunk, before emerging into a street that bore every scar of the night’s calamity. The familiar structures of the treetop city, once a harmonious blend of nature and human ingenuity, now twisted by flames and smoldering ruin.

  We moved cautiously through deserted thoroughfares, keeping low and silent. So far, we had not happened upon any corpses or signs of life, which was strange in its own right. Where had all the people gone to? And where were the guards? The ones who were supposed to protect the city from such devastation?

  At last, we arrived at the lower plaza, situated below the stairs leading up to the Forum hall. Here, a grand fountain wrought in carved wood stood vigil over a circular agora flanked by various shops and restaurants, whose darkened interiors now lay devoid of activity. It seemed a natural gathering place for the residents of the upper city, a center for social life amidst the towering trees of Fogveil.

  Except, the entire space now lay covered in small trees sprouting from the ground at random intervals, as if planted by some overzealous gardener looking to turn the area into his own private garden.

  “Uhh... Cliff?” I asked, regarding the plaza with some apprehension. “Is it supposed to look like that?”

  “No,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Something must’ve happened here. We must leave before-”

  “Oh, sweet child,” a melodious voice said, coming from somewhere within the mess of trees. “You mustn’t fight it. Surrender to the inevitable.”

  A stunned silence came over us as we turned towards the sound, straining our eyes to see past the maze of newly-sprouted saplings.

  “... Yes, I know it hurts. But I assure you, the pain is not to last. Soon, you will be free of the corruption, your mind adrift on formless seas.”

  Beside me, Amelie let slip a sudden gasp of terror, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder.

  “Stonefather save us...” she said, staring at one of the trees. “Those are... people!”

  I promptly turned to follow her gaze, and soon felt the bottom of my stomach drop out in absolute revulsion.

  Spindly, gnarled trunks emerged from what had once been human forms. Pale limbs fused with bark; eyes that had once shone with life, now lost in ridges of wood and splintered bone. The ground littered with the shattered remnants of humanity, as if nature itself had claimed vengeance, reanimating the dead to serve as grotesque pillars for the city.

  Every tree stood rooted in a human body, their faces contorted in expressions of agony and pain, as though the transformation had caused them terrible misery. Their skin, once warm and vibrant, was mottled with a rough, bark-like texture, and their limbs, twisted and contorted, had begun merging with the wooden growths that now erupted from their flesh.

  My breath caught in my throat. I could scarcely comprehend the horror: the fountain in the center now serving as a morbid altar, its waters reflecting the silhouettes of these monstrous creations.

  A soft groan warbled forth from a ruined throat, belonging to a person whose body had been taken entirely by the corruption. His arms were thick branches rooted in a wooden core, and from his eye sockets sprouted twigs, robbing him of all vision.

  “H-Help... Help...”

  The voice was naught but a whisper, a rasping breath that sent a violent shudder down my spine. The word, if it could even be called that, was stretched and mangled, choked out between lips that were slowly hardening into something unyielding.

  “Amelie,” I breathed, gripping her hand as though to anchor myself against the nightmare. “They’re... They’re still alive.”

  The reality of that statement settled over us like a suffocating weight. This was no mere aftermath of a massacre. These people had not just been slain and left to rot. They were changing. Slowly. Horribly.

  Cliff gave a sharp exhale through his nose, his grip tightening on the handle of his blade as he surveyed the scene with a dark, knowing expression. “Steel yourselves,” he said. “The perpetrator approaches.”

  A hush fell over the plaza, the rustling of leaves blending with the crackling of distant flames. The air was thick and cloying with the scent of damp earth and something sickly sweet, like fruit left to rot in the sun. The trees - nay, the people - gave a sudden shift, their bark-covered limbs creaking, their mouths parted as if caught in the middle of an unfinished scream.

  And then, he emerged.

  Stepping out from behind one of the twisted forms, he moved with an unnatural grace, his bare feet making no sound against the wooden planks beneath him. His robes, a flowing veil of deep green, shimmered like wet leaves, and his long, dark hair was woven with vines and blossoms, as if the forest itself had crowned him.

  He was beautiful, in the way a storm was beautiful; both terrible and mesmerizing, all at once. His eyes, an unnatural shade of amber, glowed softly as he regarded us with something akin to sadness.

  “You poor things,” he said, with anguish in his voice. “Are you infected too?”

  I swallowed hard, the weight of his gaze sending an unnatural chill through me. Every instinct I had screamed at me to run. This man, whoever or whatever he was, was no mere bystander in this nightmare.

  He was its architect.

  Amelie was the first to find her voice. “What have you done?” Her words were little more than a whisper, but the fury in them was unmistakable.

  The man looked at her as though from a dream, his cheeks glistening with freshly- spilt tears. “I have saved them.” He gestured towards the misshapen forms around us, his fingers long and slender. “Freed them from their suffering. From what they were about to become.”

  “Freed?” Amelie’s voice cracked. “You have twisted them! Turned them into things! Mindless, horrific things!”

  The man’s expression remained unchanged. “Oh, no. They are not suffering. Not anymore.” He stepped closer, his hand caressing the surface of a bark-covered arm. There was an odd tenderness to the touch, as though he cared greatly for the person in question. “The pain fades. The mind softens. They become one with something greater. No more hunger. No more fear. Only growth.”

  The man near us let out another weak groan, his wooden fingers twitching.

  Cliff stepped forwards then, his stance shifting, placing himself between us and the architect of this madness. “Enough of your lies,” he said, mouth curled upwards in a snarl. His hand yet gripped his blade, bound in its cloth wrappings. “I’ve seen this before. I know what you are.”

  The man’s eyes drifted to Cliff, his brow furrowed in thought. “Do you, I wonder?” he mused. “Men like you are always so quick to name things. So desperate to cling to your crumbling world of death and ruin.” His fingers twitched, and the wooden figures around us seemed to breathe, shifting ever so slightly, the rustling of their branches growing louder. “There will be no place for you in the new world, old wolf.”

  Cliff tensed.

  A root slithered toward my foot. I lurched back, cursing under my breath. The corruption was spreading fast.

  “We need to move,” I said.

  The man’s gaze snapped to me, and for a moment, I could have sworn his eyes gleamed brighter. “Ah,” he exhaled, taking a step forward. “But you... you are different, are you not?”

  A sharp, pulsing heat burned beneath the fabric of my clothes. The sigil... it was coming alive, clawing at my skin.

  I clenched my jaw. He could sense it. Whatever magicks ran through him, it resonated with mine. A sickening realization settled in my gut.

  He was no mere cultist, or deranged mystic. He was like me.

  “Yes, I see it now,” the man said, an earnest smile upon his lips. “You are not infected. Oh, thank the heavens! You should flee this place, before the corruption has time to fester.”

  Cliff let slip a low, humorless chuckle. “Flee?” he echoed, nodding towards the twisted figures. “As they tried to?”

  “With them, I had no choice,” the man said, his words laden with sorrow. “You do not understand what was coming for them. I only did what I had to.”

  Amelie took a steadying breath. “And what, pray tell, was coming for them?”

  The man hesitated, his eyes flickering with something I could not quite place. Guilt? Dread? He exhaled slowly. “Something worse than this.”

  Worse.

  A fresh chill ran down my spine.

  “What did you do to them?” I demanded.

  “I severed them from the Seedling’s grasp,” he said simply, as though a matter of course. “I stopped the corruption before it could take hold.”

  The Seedling. That name again.

  A gust of wind swept through the plaza, stirring leaves and sending a ripple through the forms around us. They groaned in unison, as though the breeze pained them. The man turned, looking at them with grief in his eyes.

  “I tried to make it gentle,” he whispered. “But mercy is still pain in the end.”

  A pit formed in my stomach. The way he spoke... it was not arrogance, or madness. He truly believed that what he had done was an act of kindness.

  But I was not yet ready to call it mercy. “You butchered them,” Amelie spat.

  The man looked at her, his golden eyes dimming. “I mourn them more than you ever will, child,” he said. “But even so, I cannot afford to linger. There are others still untouched, and the Seedling will not stop the hunt for its host.”

  His gaze flicked to me again. I stiffened beneath its weight. A heartbeat passed in silence.

  Then, before I could react, he raised his hand, his fingers forming an intricate shape in the air. A pulse of energy, gentle yet forceful, burst outward, sweeping over me like a wave.

  The sigil on my back flared. I gasped, the air stolen from my lungs.

  The pulse was not an attack. It was an intrusion, a searching ward looking deep within me. Seeking something hidden in my flesh.

  The Seedling.

  The realization sent a bolt of panic through me. I staggered back, my breath coming in short, rapid bursts.

  The man’s face darkened.

  “...It’s you,” he breathed.

  There was no time to think. No time to ask what it portended.

  Cliff moved first, his sword flashing free of its bindings in a blur of blackened steel. As soon as he did, roots exploded from the wooden planks beneath us, twisting about like striking vipers. Amelie yelped, barely dodging a tendril that lashed out at her ankles.

  “Run!” Cliff bellowed, his voice warped by something arcane. His dark blade cleaving wood and flesh alike as he cut a path through the forest of human trees, barbed vines springing forth about him. He seemed a demon as he went, his eyes a terrible crimson, ablaze with sudden rage.

  I grabbed Amelie by the wrist, and ran.

  Around us, the trees moved. What had once been rooted bodies now lurched forwards, slow and staggering, their malformed limbs reaching out for us. In an instant, something slammed against the ground beside me, splintering the wood. A vine - a whip - had lashed out from one of the transformed, striking with terrifying force.

  “Oh dear, what a dreadful mess.”

  The words, spoken on a soft breath, froze the world in sudden pause. The trees stilled. The air grew thick with unspoken dread. My legs locked, my body refusing to move.

  At the far end of the plaza stood a child, no older than twelve at the most. Moonlight caught in tousled strands of blonde hair, framing a young face cast in shades of quiet disdain, as if beholding something appalling. On his back, an enormous sword twice the size of his body, so ill-fitted that its tip scraped the ground below with every twist and turn of his torso.

  “Oh, would you look at that? A Curseblade,” the child said, looking at Cliff, whose hand yet gripped the Blade of Greed. “Funny... I have one of those, too.”

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