[Fortress – throne room: The Heart of Decay]
The great hall pulsed like a living organ, its fungal walls breathing with each moment. Spores drifted in the thick, humid air as Mark, Blake, and Nathen stepped forward, their weapons ready, armor gifted by Notarus gleaming under the bioluminescent glow.
Upon the blackened throne of twisted roots and obsidian mushrooms sat Vrathkul, the Dark King. His face was half-shrouded in a veil of fungal tendrils, his eyes glowing like molten amber. Beside him, corrupted spirits hovered—guardians of his blight.
"Three lights," Vrathkul rumbled. "Come to flicker against my shadow."
Mark hurled the first firebomb. It erupted against the throne, scattering spores.
Blake dashed forward, swinging the bone-carved greatsword with both hands. Vrathkul rose, tall as two men, and caught the blade with his bare hand. Fungal armor grew instantly across his arm, deflecting the force.
"You think fire and courage will undo centuries of rot?"
Nathen slammed his fungal gauntlets into the floor, sending shockwaves through the ground. Fungal roots ruptured, lifting Vrathkul slightly off balance. Blake seized the moment, landing a blow that cracked the Dark King's shoulder.
Vrathkul snarled.
"Enough."
The roots responded.
From every crevice, tendrils burst forth—grabbing ankles, wrists, and weapons. Mark ignited his final vial and cast it into the air. It exploded in a dome of flame, momentarily blinding everyone.
When the light faded, Mark stood behind Vrathkul.
"For Elias," he whispered, plunging a blade into the Dark King's back.
The blade pierced.
Vrathkul shuddered.
Then laughed.
"Yes," he hissed. "You bleed me... and now I bleed the world."
His body pulsed. Spores burst outward. A scream filled the air—not human, not natural.
He spun with demonic speed, seizing Mark by the throat. With a single heave, he hurled him into the fungus-covered wall, where he slumped unconscious.
Blake charged again.
Vrathkul caught his sword mid-swing and shattered it.
Nathen summoned vines to bind the King—but Vrathkul's body erupted with tendrils, reversing the spell. The vines wrapped Nathen instead, slamming him to the floor.
"You fought like warriors," Vrathkul said, stepping over their fallen forms. "But I am rot. I cannot die as men do."
Blake crawled toward Mark, gasping. "We're not... done."
Vrathkul raised a hand. A pillar of black spore-fire launched from his palm, striking Blake square in the chest. The boy screamed as darkness consumed him.
---
\[Rotland's Prison Cells – Beneath the Fortress]
The warriors lay chained in separate fungal cells, barely conscious. Their weapons gone. Their hopes dimmed.
Nathen spat blood. "We almost had him..."
Mark stirred weakly. "But we didn't."
From the shadows outside the bars, a soft voice whispered:
"You're not alone. The forest remembers."
A pair of glowing eyes blinked once—and vanished.
[Pteris Outskirts: Moonlit Resolve]
Emma gripped the moss-map tightly as the moonlight filtered through the canopy above. The crescent-shaped roots glowed faintly beneath her boots, just as the village chief promised. Her breath fogged in the crisp air, but her determination burned bright.
She had to find Elias—and warn him. Whatever Elowen's past was, Emma couldn't trust the daughter of the swamp with her best friend's life.
As she passed through a narrow ravine, wind howled through the stones like ancient whispers. Vines tangled and shifted behind her, as though the forest itself was watching. Emma's hand hovered near the dagger she had taken from the village chief—curved, bark-carved, and warm to the touch.
From the shadows, a small creature darted across her path. It looked like a walking mushroom with eyes. Emma froze, but it stopped, turned, and chirped.
"You're not dangerous… are you?" she whispered.
The creature blinked twice, then scampered off, stopping only to look back.
"Are you… showing me the way?"
Emma followed.
---
[Crysthorn Valley Edge: Stone and Spores]
The terrain shifted. Thick fernwood gave way to pale, chalky cliffs. Lichen glowed faintly along the cracks, pulsing like veins in a living body. Emma climbed carefully, hands scraping against sharp stone.
When she reached the plateau, the air changed. A low hum vibrated under her boots. Energy. Old and coiled like a serpent beneath the ground.
The mushroom-creature stopped and vanished into a crevice.
"Thanks for not leading me into a trap," Emma murmured.
A soft crunch behind her made her spin around, dagger raised.
It was a tall figure cloaked in moss and crystal growths.
"You are not of Crysthorn," he said. His voice was deep and crystalline.
"I'm looking for someone," Emma replied. "A boy. Elias. And a nymph called Elowen."
The figure studied her. "You walk with urgency. That is rare among humans here."
"I don't care what's rare. I just need to find them."
He stepped aside, revealing a narrow trail etched into the cliffside. "That path leads to the Echoing Grotto. If your friends entered Crysthorn, that is where they'll be drawn."
"Why?"
"Because that's where the Lichstone's voice sleeps."
---
[Echoing Grotto: Descent of Secrets]
Emma ventured downward, lantern swaying in her grip. The path grew tighter, the walls pulsing with green light. Crysthorn's voice wasn't metaphorical—it sang, deep and resonant, from the walls themselves.
She reached a cavern filled with suspended stone bridges and floating moss-islands. Water dripped from the ceiling like glass beads. At the center stood a broken pedestal, cracked down the middle.
Voices echoed around her.
"You shouldn't have come."
Emma spun around.
A woman stood at the far edge of the cavern. Her hair was woven with lichen strands, her face familiar—eerily so.
"Who are you?" Emma asked.
"I am what Elowen might have become," the figure said. "And what she still might."
The shadows danced.
And Emma realized: Crysthorn held more than just stones and echoes.
It held futures.
---
TO BE CONTINUED....