The silver archway hummed with an otherworldly resonance, its surface rippling like disturbed mercury. Seraphina's breath caught in her throat as the scent of rain-washed leaves and rich, dark earth poured through the opening—a scent so vivid it made her eyes sting with unexpected tears. Riven stirred beside her, his newly healed body trembling with exhaustion as he pushed himself upright. His fingers, no longer twisted by corruption but still too pale, tightened around her wrist.
"We shouldn't—" he began, but the words died as the archway's shimmering surface flickered.
For a heartbeat, the veil between worlds thinned.
Beyond the arch stood a forest of impossible trees, their trunks silver-white and smooth as polished bone. Golden fruit hung heavy from their branches, pulsing softly in time with some unseen heartbeat. Between them moved figures—tall and slender, their features indistinct but their presence humming with the same energy that now lived in Riven's veins. One turned, just slightly, as if sensing their gaze.
Then the vision was gone, the archway solidifying back into its liquid silver form.
Seraphina's pulse roared in her ears. "That was—"
"The First Grove," Riven finished, his voice rough. He touched the mark on his chest—the swirling pattern left by the seed. "I can... feel it. Like a memory that isn't mine." His golden eyes were dark with something unreadable. "Lysandra's roots didn't just save me. They connected me."
A cold wind slithered through the ruined courtyard, carrying with it the faintest whisper—a voice that wasn't quite a voice, more a vibration in the air itself:
Come home.
The words weren't spoken aloud, yet they settled into Seraphina's bones with the weight of a command. Riven flinched as if struck, his hand flying to his temple. "You heard that too," she whispered.
He nodded, jaw clenched. "It's not just calling me." His gaze dropped to the seed's mark on his chest, then lifted to hers. "It's calling us."
The implications hung between them, heavy as a blade.
Somewhere beyond that arch lay answers—about the corruption, about the golden fruit, about Lysandra's sacrifice. But it also posed a danger. The kind that didn't just kill you, but changed you. Seraphina had seen what happened when the roots took hold.
Riven's fingers found hers again, his grip warm and steady despite the tremor in his voice. "We don't have to go."
The wind sighed through the broken stones, carrying another whisper:
Before the dark finds you.
Seraphina's blood turned to ice.
In the distance, beyond the courtyard's ruins, shadows moved. Not the natural shift of twilight, but something alive—a creeping stain against the earth, spreading like spilt ink. The corruption wasn't gone. It had been waiting.
And now it was hunting.
Riven followed her gaze, his breath hitching. The mark on his chest flared gold in response, as if in warning.
The choice was no longer theoretical.
Seraphina tightened her grip on his hand and stepped toward the arch. The moment her boot touched the shimmering surface, the silver rippled outward, the air thickening like honey. A thousand voices rushed through her mind—whispers of the lost, the forgotten, the hungry.
Then the world dissolved into light.
The silver archway pulsed like a living thing, its surface rippling with liquid light. Seraphina's breath hitched as a gust of wind heavy with the scent of petrichor and ripe fruit rushed through the opening. The air tasted electric on her tongue, sharp with ozone and something sweeter beneath—like honey dripping from a comb.
Riven's fingers dug into her wrist. "Wait—" His voice was rough, still raw from screaming. When she turned, his golden eyes were wide, the pupils dilated with something between fear and awe. "Do you feel that?"
She did. A vibration humming through her bones, a pull deep in her gut. The mark on Riven's chest—the swirling brand left by the seed—glowed faintly in response.
Before she could answer, the archway shimmered.
For one suspended heartbeat, the veil between worlds tore open.
Beyond the arch stretched a forest of silver-barked trees, their canopies heavy with golden fruit that pulsed like distant stars. Between their trunks moved figures—tall, willowy, their features blurred as if seen through warped glass. One turned toward them, and Seraphina's heart stuttered.
Lysandra?
But the vision shattered before she could be sure.
Riven exhaled sharply beside her. "That was the First Grove." He pressed a hand to his chest, his fingers trembling against the glowing mark. "I can... feel it. Like a song I've known my whole life but just remembered."
A whisper curled through the air, not with sound but with pressure, like fingers trailing down her spine:
Come home.
Seraphina stiffened. "You heard that too?"
Riven's throat worked as he swallowed. "It's not just words. It's—" He broke off with a hiss, clutching his head as if struck. The mark on his chest flared brighter.
She grabbed his shoulders. "What's happening?"
"It's pulling at me." His voice was strained. "Like roots is growing through my ribs, and they're—ah—" He doubled over, gasping.
The wind picked up, howling through the ruined courtyard. It carried another whisper, this one colder:
Before the dark finds you.
A prickle of unease crawled up Seraphina's neck. She turned—
And froze.
At the far edge of the courtyard, where the shadows pooled thickest, something moved. Not the natural shift of dusk, but a seething—a darkness that curled and uncurled like smoke, tendrils testing the air.
Riven followed her gaze. His breath caught. "It's not gone."
The corruption. It had been biding its time.
And now it was hunting.
The silver archway pulsed urgently, its light growing brighter as the shadows crept closer. Seraphina's pulse hammered in her throat. Every instinct screamed to run—but from which threat?
Riven's hand found hers, his grip fever-hot. "We can't stay here." His golden eyes met hers, desperate. "But if we go through that arch—"
"—We might not come back the same," she finished.
A crack split the air as the corruption surged forward, tendrils lashing like whips. The nearest one struck the ground where they'd stood moments before, stone sizzling where it touched.
No more time.
Seraphina tightened her grip on Riven's hand and stepped into the arch.
The world dissolved.
Light—blinding, searing—flooded her vision. A thousand voices shrieked and whispered and sang in her skull, overlapping until she couldn't tell where her thoughts ended and theirs began.
—So long since one of the marked walked among us—
—the corruption follows, it always follows—
—She carries the scent of old storms and older blood—
Then—
Silence.
Seraphina gasped as solid ground met her knees. The air was thick and sweet, heavy with the perfume of overripe fruit. When her vision cleared, she wished it hadn't.
They stood in a clearing surrounded by silver trees, their branches twisted into agonised shapes. The golden fruit hanging from them wasn't glowing.
It was weeping.
Thick, amber sap oozed from their skins, dripping to pool on roots that squirmed like living things.
Riven made a choked sound beside her. "This isn't the Grove I saw."
A voice answered from the shadows between the trees:
"No," it said. "This is what remains."
And from the darkness stepped Lysandra—or what had once been her.
Her body was made of silver roots now, her human form barely recognizable beneath the tangle of them. Only her face remained untouched, pale as moonlight, her eyes two pits of swirling gold.
She smiled, and it was full of thorns.
"You shouldn't have come."