"A thoughtful gesture," Thaine said when she finished, not bothering to hide that he'd been watching in the mirror's reflection. "Though don’t think too highly of it. Leather won't help much where you're going. The marrow vines are quite persistent when they're hungry."
"Marrow vines?"
His grin widened. "Did no one explain? How delightfully cruel. Yes, marrow vines. They have such, ah…voraciousappetites."
Dread coiled tighter in her stomach. Marrow vines. The name alone made her skin crawl with implications she couldn’t begin to fathom.
He gestured to the door with a flourish. "Shall we? The garden does hate to be kept waiting."
With no small amount of reluctance, she followed. Not because she wanted to, but because refusing would only delay the inevitable. The halls beyond were empty, everyone tucked away in their quarters. Even the ever-present watching sensation felt muted, as if the castle itself had withdrawn from what was to come.
Thaine’s steps were light, almost giddy in anticipation of what was to come. She was tempted to ask what else the garden held but lacked the courage. They descended stairs she hadn't seen before, each stone carved step taking them deeper into the earth. The walls eventually shifted from living wood to smooth stone, and finally something older. The temperature dropped with each turn until her breath misted in the air.
"Nervous?" Thaine asked, his tone light. "Your heart's racing. I can hear it from here."
She was, not that she would admit it. "Should I be nervous?"
"Oh, absolutely. The bone garden is one of his lordship's finest creations. So elegant. So efficient." He paused at a heavy door of petrified wood. "A few helpful hints, since I'm feeling generous. The moss? Don't trust it. It remembers things. And the Rooted... well, they used to be people. Try not to think about that too much."
Usedto be people. Her throat constricted. How many had Eliam sent here before her? How many were still there, transformed into whatever the Rooted were?
He produced an iron key that looked far too old for the lock it turned. The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a moonlit path that shouldn't exist this far underground.
"One more thing," he said as she stepped through. His teeth gleamed as he gazed down at her. "Do try to stay alert. It would be a shame if you didn't last until dawn."
The door began to close.
"Wait! What am I supposed to do?"
"Tend the garden, of course. You'll find tools by the gate. Weeding, mostly. His lordship is very particular about weeds." The gap narrowed to a sliver. "Oh, and rabbit? Whatever you do, steer clear of the vines…They’re patient hunters."
The door shut with finality.
Briar stood alone on a path of crushed bone meal, staring at what lay ahead. At first glance, it seemed almost peaceful. Gnarled trees stretched overhead, their dead branches creating a canopy of interlocked fingers. Grayish moss covered everything in a soft blanket. Here and there, limp vines hung from the branches, swaying gently in a breeze she couldn't feel.
It didn't look as nightmarish as she had feared. If anything it looked withered and dead.
Hope, small and desperate, fluttered in her chest. Maybe the court's fear had been exaggerated, an act meant to scare her. Perhaps this was just another test of endurance, unpleasant but survivable.
She followed the path to a rusted gate where gardening tools waited. There was a trowel, shears, and a basket woven from something that might have been hair. Briar had no desire to examine it further. A patch of ground near the gate showed clear signs of weeding needed. Thin, silvery plants pushed up between larger growths, delicate as frost patterns.
Briar knelt and reached for one.
The first cut was so fine she didn't feel it. Only when she saw blood beading on her palm did the pain register. It was sharp and clean, like the worst paper cut imaginable. She jerked back, but her hand brushed another weed, earning matching cuts across her knuckles and another line of crimson.
"Careful," she muttered, reaching for the trowel instead.
But even through the leather gloves she found nearby, the weeds fought back. Each one removed left her hands stinging, tiny cuts accumulating faster than she could track. Worse was the sap they bled when cut. It was clear at first before taking on a greenish tinge that burned wherever it touched exposed skin.
She'd cleared maybe a square foot when her knee brushed the moss.
The world tilted as pain beyond comprehension crashed through her. She could feel thorns burrowing deep, the king's laughter as he pronounced sentence,No please I didn't mean—
Briar gasped, jerking away from the moss. But the memory fragment clung, replaying a man's final moments in nauseating clarity. He'd died here. Died badly.
Her stomach churned as she carefully repositioned, trying to avoid the moss. But it was everywhere, coating trees and stones and ground. Her hands trembled as she reached for the trowel again, muscles tense with the effort of holding herself away from any surface. The moss seemed to pulse in her peripheral vision, waiting for her to slip or fall into another person's final agonizing moments.
Each accidental brush brought with it a new horror.
