That cut through the rage like a blade. “What are you saying?”
“Channel it. Don’t let it take you. Use it.” Peeble’s antennae twitched.
I took a deep breath, and with all the self-control I could muster, I pulled back in the corruption. The strain visible through the veins bulging in my neck. I would not fail Elle.
Twelve hours into the journey, the tunnel changed. The stone beneath my feet went from rough-carved to smooth, like we’d crossed an invisible threshold. The temperature dropped, and I could taste metal on my tongue.
“This is it,” I said, feeling the pull Elle had described. “The branchingpassage.”
But I didn’t see it. None of us did.
We searched the chamber, running hands along walls, checking for hidden seams or pressure points. Nothing. The tunnel continued straight ahead—the only visible path.
“It’s here,” I insisted. “I can feel it.”
Vashael moved to the center of the chamber and exhaled, not breath, but pollen. A cloud of it, shimmering faintly in the moss-light, spreading through the air like dust motes. We watched it drift, settle, disperse.
Then we saw it.
A draft. Subtle, almost imperceptible, but there—pulling the pollen toward what looked like a natural rock formation jutting from the wall. Just a bulge of stone, unremarkable, the kind of thing you’d walk past without a second glance.
Vashael approached it, reached out.
Her hand went through.
“Illusion,” she said, pulling back. “Old magic. It’s not hiding the passage—it’s making you not want to look at it.”
That’s why the guards had never found it. Not because it was sealed or locked, but because the Root itself had wrapped it in disinterest. You could stand right in front of it and never think to reach out.
I stepped forward and pushed through the illusion. The stone rippled like water, and suddenly I was on the other side, a narrow descending passage, real and solid.
The others stopped. We’d discussed this at camp—only Eltrien, Peeble, and I would go forward. The rest would hold this position, guard our backs.
“How long?” Sarnyx asked.
“However long it takes,” I said. “Don’t let anyone past you.”
Vashael nodded. Nimor melted into shadow to watch the rear tunnel. Sarnyx positioned herself at the junction, thorns ready.
As Eltrien, Peeble, and I moved down the passage, it narrowed, twisted, and descended sharply. The Root’s presence grew stronger with each step. I kept checking behind us, sure that guards would find us at any moment.
After what felt like an hour, the passage opened into a chamber.
Small. Circular. The walls were smooth, almost polished, like water had worn them over millennia. No other exits. No way in or out except the tunnel we’d used.
In the center of the chamber, a formation of white stone rose from the floor—not quite a pedestal, more like the stone had simply grown upward in a spiral, creating a natural shelf at waist height. The stone was pale, veined with gold that pulsed faintly.
And resting in the depression at the top was the seed, roughly the size of my fist, smooth and dark, with veins of gold running through it. It pulsed with light—soft, rhythmic, alive. The glow reflected off the chamber walls, making the whole space feel like the inside of a beating heart.
“The original seed,” Peeble said quietly. “The Root’s failsafe.”
I approached slowly. The seed’s light brightened as I drew near, responding to something in me. My corruption? My carved marks? Something else?
“Don’t touch it yet,” Eltrien warned. “If you claim it before the Convergence, you’ll trigger a cascade. Elle needs to be free when this activates.”
“Then we seal it.” I looked at Eltrien. “Can you make it impossible to access until the Convergence?”
He studied the seed, the chamber, his marks pulsing faster in that seventeen-beat pattern. “Yes. My connection to the iterations gives me some authority here. I can seal it temporarily—the wards will hold until the boundaries thin.”
