The cold was the first thing Seraphina noticed as consciousness crept back—a deep, penetrating chill that seeped through her torn clothing and settled into her bones. Her body ached as though she had been crushed beneath the weight of mountains, every muscle protesting as she tried to move. The fabric of her tunic, once a deep forest green but now stained dark with blood and dirt, clung to her skin, stiff with dried sweat and grime.
The sleeves were shredded from thorns and claws, revealing pale skin beneath crisscrossed with fresh cuts and older scars. She lay sprawled across broken stone, her fingers curled weakly against the rough surface, nails cracked and caked with dirt. When she finally forced her eyes open, the sight above her was a bruised twilight sky, streaked with the last fading embers of sunset. The air smelled of scorched earth and something sickly sweet, like rotting fruit left too long in the sun.
Memory returned in jagged fragments—the First Hunger's thorned fingers closing around her throat, the golden fruit pulsing weakly in her grip, Lysandra's final scream as she plunged her own glowing heart into the creature's chest. And Riven—Riven, his body wracked with corruption, black veins spreading beneath his skin like ink in water.
With a groan, she pushed herself up, wincing as the movement sent fresh pain lancing through her ribs. The courtyard around her was a wasteland of destruction. What had once been a grand, open space lined with ancient stone pillars and intricate carvings was now a ruin of shattered rock and uprooted earth. The cobblestones beneath her were split apart, great fissures running through them like wounds, as though something massive had torn its way free from below. In the centre of the devastation gaped a massive pit, its edges ragged and uneven. From within it, thin silver roots spilt over the broken ground, their surfaces shimmering faintly, pulsing with a slow, rhythmic light. They looked alive—not like the gnarled, grasping roots of the First Hunger, but something purer, brighter, as though spun from moonlight itself.
Her gaze darted across the ruined courtyard, searching, until she found him.
Riven lay motionless a few paces away, half-buried beneath debris. His once-golden skin had turned ashen, the warm hue leached away by whatever corruption still writhed beneath the surface. The black veins had spread further since she last saw him, creeping up his neck like dark ivy, the skin around them stretched tight and feverish.
His shirt—once finely made, the fabric soft and well-tailored—hung in tatters, the sleeves torn away to reveal arms now marred by the same twisting darkness. His hands were the worst. His fingers, usually so sure and steady, were now clawed and stiff, the nails blackened and splitting as thin, root-like tendrils curled from the tips. His lips were slightly parted, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. And his eyes—
They were still open.
Still gold, but dim now, like guttering candlelight.
Seraphina dragged herself toward him, her boots slipping on loose stone. When her fingers finally brushed his wrist, his skin burned beneath her touch, fever-hot, the pulse there weak and fluttering.
"Riven," she whispered, her voice raw.
He didn't answer.
A weight shifted against her hip, and she reached down, her fingers closing around something small and hard. The golden fruit—or what was left of it. But it was no longer a fruit. Nestled in her palm was a seed, no larger than a walnut, its surface a swirling mix of gold and black, the outer shell rough as ancient bark, the core glowing faintly, like a trapped ember. When she pressed her thumb against it, warmth bloomed beneath her skin, humming in time with her heartbeat.
Lysandra's last gift.
A sound shattered the silence—a sharp crack, like bone breaking.
Her head snapped up.
From the pit, something moved.
At first, it was just a whisper a shift in the air, a tremor in the earth. Then—
A single, slender root emerged from the darkness.
It was unlike anything she had ever seen. Silver-white, almost translucent, its surface shimmering with an inner light. It curled upward, questing, like a blind thing seeking the sun. Then another. And another. They slithered over the edge of the pit, coiling across the broken stones with eerie purpose. And they were moving—not randomly, but with direction.
Toward Riven.
Her breath caught.
One of the roots brushed his outstretched hand.
The reaction was instant.
The black veins beneath his skin recoiled, twisting violently as if burned. Riven's body arched off the ground, a choked gasp tearing from his throat. His eyes flew wide, gold flooding back into them, bright and terrified.
"Seraphina—" His voice was a broken thing.
Then the roots surged forward, wrapping around his wrists, his arms, his chest—
And pulled.
She lunged, fingers closing around his forearm just as the roots tightened their grip. The moment her skin touched his, pain exploded up her arm, white-hot and searing. Visions flashed behind her eyes:
—A forest of silver trees, their branches heavy with golden fruit.
—A voice, whispering in a language older than time.
—Lysandra, her body dissolving into light, her last words not a goodbye, but a warning.
The seed in her other hand burned hotter.
She had a choice.
Let the roots take him—let them purge the corruption, even if it meant losing him to whatever power now stirred beneath the earth.
Or pull him free—and risk the darkness inside him consuming what little was left.
Riven's fingers twitched against hers. His lips formed a single word:
"Please."
The roots tightened.
Seraphina made her decision.
The roots coiled tighter around Riven's body, their silver tendrils pulsing with an eerie light as they worked their way beneath his skin. Seraphina could feel the heat radiating from them even as she clung to his arm, her fingers digging into his feverish flesh. The black veins of corruption writhed in protest, retreating from the silver light like shadows before a flame. Riven's back arched violently as the two forces warred within him, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps that sprayed flecks of dark fluid across the broken stones. His golden eyes locked onto hers, wide with pain and something else - a desperate plea that cut deeper than any blade.
The seed in Seraphina's other hand grew unbearably hot, its glow intensifying until it burned white against her palm. She could feel its power thrumming through her veins, a strange harmony with the silver roots that now covered Riven's convulsing form. Without conscious thought, she pressed the seed against his chest where the roots were thickest. The reaction was immediate - the silver tendrils flared blindingly bright, their light eating away at the black corruption like fire through dry parchment. Riven's scream tore through the ruined courtyard, a sound so raw it seemed to shake the very foundations of the broken stones around them.
As the light reached its peak intensity, Seraphina felt the world drop away beneath her. The courtyard, the pit, even Riven's writhing form all dissolved into a swirling void of silver and gold. She was floating-or - or falling - through a space between spaces, where whispers in a forgotten language brushed against her skin like cobwebs. The scent of blooming orchards and freshly turned earth filled her nostrils, so vivid she could almost taste it on her tongue. Somewhere in this impossible place, she sensed Lysandra's presence - not as the transformed warrior she'd last seen, but as something purer, older, woven into the very fabric of whatever this place was.
The vision shattered as suddenly as it had come. Seraphina found herself back in the ruined courtyard, her body slumped over Riven's now-still form. The silver roots had receded into his skin, leaving behind only faint traceries of light beneath the surface. His breathing had steadied, though his skin remained pale as parchment. Most startling of all, where the seed had been pressed against his chest, a new mark had formed - a swirling pattern of gold and black that pulsed faintly with each beat of his heart.
A soft groan escaped Riven's lips as his eyelids fluttered.
When they opened, his golden eyes were clear for the first time since the battle began. "It's... quiet," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the whispering wind.
"The hunger... It's gone." His fingers twitched against hers, weak but unmistakably human again. The relief that washed through Seraphina was so intense it left her lightheaded.
But their reprieve was short-lived. From the pit came a new sound - a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the stones beneath them. The silver roots that lined its edges began to tremble, their glow intensifying. Seraphina barely had time to drag Riven back before the first tendril shot upward, arcing through the air like a whip before embedding itself in the ground nearby. More followed, dozens of them, weaving together with impossible speed to form a latticework of shimmering light. Within moments, the outline of a great archway had taken shape, its surface shifting like liquid silver in the fading light.
Riven's hand tightened around hers as they watched the impossible structure complete itself. "That wasn't here before," he murmured, his voice still weak but gaining strength. "The roots... they're showing us something."
As if in response to his words, the surface of the archway shimmered, revealing glimpses of another place beyond - towering silver trees, their branches heavy with golden fruit, and beneath them, shadowy figures moving in the distance.
The seed's final gift had been more than just Riven's salvation. It had opened a door. And whatever lay beyond it, Seraphina knew with bone-deep certainty, would change everything.