“Originally, the Bloom was created as a semblance of balance,” hecontinued, his voice flat with old anger. “A counterweight to the Root’s wild power. But the Crown learned that if they could bind with it, they could control elements of the Root itself. Use it. Shape it. Corrupt it.” His carved marks pulsed darker. “That binding shifted the balance of everything. Created the rot you’ve seen spreading through Wynmire. The Crown’s precious control is killing the realm piece by piece.”
“Delightful history,” Bryx muttered, though for once his mandibles weren’t clicking with amusement—just nervous energy that set my teeth on edge. Even he looked shaken, still steaming from his combat transformation.
“The wood remembers,” Vashael added, pressing her palm against the breathing door. “That’s why it looks like this. Every twist, every wrong angle—that’s pain given form. The trees were trying to protect the people inside when the fire came. They failed, but they never stopped trying. That’s why places like this are safe. The wood knows betrayal. It won’t allow it again.”
The door opened without us touching it, exhaling warm air that smelled of earth and old grief.
Inside, the monastery was worse. Better. Both.
The walls were definitely breathing—I could see them expand and contract, see veins of pale sap pulsing beneath translucent bark. But it was oddly soothing, like being inside something alive and benign. Something that had survived unimaginable trauma and chosen kindness anyway.
Phosphorescent moss carpeted the walls in constellations of light, shifting between jade and bronze. The floor was soft beneath our feet—not carpet but living wood that had chosen to be gentle, that cushioned each step like it understood how badly we hurt.
In the center of the main chamber, a massive tree grew up through the floor and out through the ceiling. Its trunk was thick as a house, bark silver-white and covered in carved names. Hundreds of them. Thousands.
“The Witness Tree,” the Sage said softly, approaching it with unusual reverence. “Every person who died here during the burning—the cultists carved their names before the end. So someone would remember. So theirchoice to heal rather than harm would mean something.”
I moved closer, drawn by something I couldn’t name. The carvings were beautiful—not just names but tiny scenes. A cultist holding the hand of a dying soldier. Two enemies sharing bread. A child being born during the siege. Moments of grace in the middle of horror.
“Meira of the Copper Grove,” I read aloud, tracing one carving. “Healed fourteen before the smoke took her.”
“Zoltin Rootwalker,” Kaelren added, his voice rougher than usual. “Gave his life force to keep the flames back for three more minutes. Saved twenty children.”
Through our bond, I felt his grief—not for strangers dead three centuries ago, but for the proof that good people could try everything and still fail. That sacrifice didn’t guarantee salvation. That sometimes, the world just burned anyway.
In the heavy weight of the silence, the others dispersed to explore, but there was none of the usual banter. Even Bryx was quiet as he collapsed in a corner, still steaming from his transformation, Kevin curled protectively on his chest.
Eltrien took Nimor aside, guiding him to sit against the Witness Tree. His mycelial markings glowed brighter as he placed both hands on Nimor’s chest, threads of light spreading from his fingers into Nimor’s unstable form.
“This is going to hurt,” Eltrien warned.
“Everything hurts,” Nimor replied, his voice echoing strangely. “Do it.”
The light intensified, and Nimor screamed—a sound that rippled through multiple dimensions at once. But when it faded, he was solid. Fully solid. More present than I’d seen him since the Star Veil.
“Thank you,” Nimor gasped, tears streaming down his now-visible face. “Gods, thank you. I thought I was going to disappear completely.”
“You almost did,” Eltrien said quietly. “The Hunt’s touch destabilizes everything it marks. I’ve bought you time, but you need to be careful. No more phasing for at least five days, or you might not come back.”
Watching them, I realized how little I actually knew about my companions.Nimor, who’d been slowly disappearing and said nothing. Eltrien, whose mycelial marks pulsed with power I didn’t understand and who sometimes spoke in riddles that felt like warnings. Bryx, whose humor hid genuine fear. Sarnyx, who guarded us all with a loyalty she’d never explain. Vashael, who’d murdered her way to freedom and now fought to protect ours.
They weren’t just placeholders in my story. They were people with their own traumas, their own reasons for being here in this breathing building full of ghosts.
“We should tell stories,” Bryx said suddenly, still lying on his back. Kevin buzzed indignantly on his chest, clearly annoyed at being used as a pillow. “Something to remind us we’re still alive. Otherwise, Kevin here is going to keep judging my life choices with his tiny bee eyes.”
“That’s surprisingly thoughtful,” Sarnyx said.
“I contain multitudes,” Bryx replied. “Shallow, panic-driven multitudes, but multitudes nonetheless.”
I hadn’t expected Kaelren to stay. Honestly, I’d half-expected him to disappear into the shadows or find some broody corner to lurk in while glowering at potential threats. Instead, he stayed close, his presence a steady warmth at my side, his hand occasionally brushing mine like he needed to confirm I was still solid.
The others shared their stories—Nimor talked about the shadow-weavers who’d raised him before the Crown wiped them out. Even Sarnyx spoke, though her tale was brief.
“I’ll tell you how I met the brooding prince here,” Sarnyx said, settling against the wall with her usual predatory grace. “I was on a scouting mission for my village. Tracking a Crown transport that was supposed to deliver supplies to us—food, medicine, things we desperately needed. The shipment was a week late, and we were starting to starve.”
She smiled, sharp and dangerous. “Then I found someone robbing it. This arrogant bastard in a cloak, loading goods onto his own transport like he owned them. Those wereoursupplies. My people’s supplies. So I attacked him.”
“You gave me a black eye,” Kaelren said dryly.
