The moment the sword struck the dagger, the world fractured.
A shockwave of silver and shadow erupted from the impact, sending Seraphina skidding backwards across the heartwood floor. The chamber trembled as the two blades screamed against one another—the sword's abyssal flame warring with the dagger's ancient poison. Cracks spiderwebbed through the air itself, revealing glimpses of other places, other times:
A young Anarais is weaving silver branches into a circlet beneath a healthy tree.
The same tree centuries later, its roots gorged on royal blood.
Lysandra, as a child, her small hands brushing against something buried in the castle gardens—something that hummed in recognition.
The corpse-king lunged for the locked blades, his unravelling form stretching like smoke. "You fool!" he rasped. "That dagger is the only thing keeping her contained!"
Seraphina barely registered the words before Lysandra moved.
Her sister—weak, blind, bleeding silver light—threw herself between them. The moment her scarred hands touched the clashing weapons, time itself seemed to stutter.
The dagger shattered.
Shards of poisoned metal exploded outward, each fragment burning with its sickly glow as it embedded in the chamber walls. The largest piece struck the corpse-king square in the chest, punching through his translucent flesh to bury itself in the blackened roots behind him.
Silence.
Then—
The roots moved.
Not with hunger.
With purpose.
They surged forward, wrapping around the corpse-king with terrifying gentleness. Where the poisoned shard had pinned him, the wood began to knit itself back together—not rejecting the corruption, but absorbing it. Transforming it.
The corpse-king's mouth opened in a soundless scream as the roots pulled him deeper into the heartwood, their silver blossoms pressing against his decaying flesh like kisses. His hollow eyes found Seraphina's as the wood encased his face, and in that final moment, she saw not malice, but relief.
Then he was gone.
The chamber shuddered, the cracks in the air sealing themselves one by one. At the centre of it all, Lysandra knelt with the sword's hilt still clutched in her hands—the blade itself had vanished, leaving only the staring eye in its pommel.
And Anara—
Anara breathed.
Her eyelids fluttered, the first movement she'd made in centuries. The wound in her chest where the dagger had been now glowed with the same silver light as Lysandra's scar, the flesh around it knitting itself back together.
When she spoke, her voice was the sound of wind through young leaves.
"It's done."
The words sent a tremor through the roots. The black veins threading through the chamber walls lightened to grey, then to silver, their corruption fading like ink in water. Lysandra swayed, the glow from her scar dimming. "Not quite," she whispered, and collapsed.
Seraphina caught Lysandra before her head could strike the heartwood floor. Her sister's skin burned with feverish heat, the branching scar across her chest pulsing erratically like a dying star. The silver light that had poured from her only moments before now flickered weakly beneath her skin, retreating inward as if drained.
Anara stepped forward, her bare feet leaving faint impressions in the living wood. Where she walked, tiny green shoots unfurled from the chamber floor, their delicate leaves brushing against her ankles like adoring children. She knelt beside them, her blood-moon hair spilling over shoulders still half-fused with bark. When she reached for Lysandra, her fingers were more root than flesh—slender tendrils that wove through the air with quiet purpose.
"She gave too much," Anara murmured. The sorrow in her voice was ancient, weathered smooth by centuries of solitude.
Seraphina's grip tightened. "Can you help her?"
The first queen's strange, luminous eyes—more silver than white now—flicked to the pommel still clutched in Lysandra's hands. The eye embedded in the metal blinked slowly, its dark pupil reflecting nothing at all.
"I cannot," Anara said softly. "But she can."
She pressed her palm to Lysandra's scar.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Lysandra arched off the ground with a soundless scream as Anara's roots threaded into her chest, the two scars connecting like puzzle pieces slotting together. The chamber trembled as silver light erupted from their joined flesh, so bright it bleached the colour from the world.
Seraphina shielded her eyes, but not before catching a glimpse of the truth—
Lysandra wasn't just connected to the roots. She was the roots. A living bridge between the corrupted past and whatever might grow from its ashes. When the light faded, Anara was gone. Only her voice remained, whispering through the newly vibrant heartwood:
"Finish what we started."
Lysandra gasped awake, her hands flying to her chest. The scar remained, but its glow had stabilised—no longer the frantic pulse of a dying thing, but the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Her fingers found the sword's pommel still clutched in her grip, its eye now a perfect mirror of her own.
She turned her face toward Seraphina, and for the first time since the transformation began—
She saw.
Not with eyes, but with something deeper. Something older.
"The castle," she breathed. "It's waking up."
Above them, the roots shuddered in response. Somewhere beyond the heartwood chamber, stone groaned under immense pressure as the great tree stretched its limbs toward the sky for the first time in centuries.
And from the pommel in Lysandra's hands, the sword began to grow—not steel, but living wood, its blade formed of intertwined roots that glowed with inner light.
Seraphina helped her sister stand, the newly forged weapon humming between them. The path back to the surface lay open, its walls lined with silver blossoms that turned to face them as they passed.
Somewhere above, the last of the corpse-king's lies waited to be undone.
And the throne—
The throne was hungry.
The air in the heartwood chamber still thrummed with the aftermath of Anara's departure. Tiny motes of silver light drifted through the space like pollen on a summer breeze, settling on Seraphina's shoulders and in Lysandra's hair, where they glimmered briefly before fading away. The roots surrounding them had changed—their surfaces smoother now, their silver blossoms fully opened to reveal delicate golden stamens that trembled with each breath of wind moving through the chamber.
Lysandra's fingers traced the contours of the living sword in her hands, her touch light as though afraid it might dissolve beneath her fingertips. The wooden blade was warm to the touch, its surface etched with fine, pulsing veins that mirrored the branching scar across her chest. When she moved, the weapon seemed to move with her, as though it were an extension of her own body.
Seraphina watched her sister, the weight of the acorn still heavy in her palm. "Can you see?" she asked quietly.
Lysandra turned toward her, and though her eyes remained clouded with silver, there was a focus to her gaze that hadn't been there before. "Not the way I used to," she murmured. "But I can feel the roots. The paths they've taken. The stories they've carried." She tilted her head slightly, as though listening to something only she could hear. "The castle is changing."
A deep, resonant groan echoed down through the chamber, vibrating through the roots beneath their feet. Dust and tiny fragments of wood rained from the ceiling as the great tree shifted above them, its ancient limbs stretching toward the sky after centuries of dormancy.
Seraphina tightened her grip on the acorn. "We need to go."
Lysandra nodded, her fingers flexing around the hilt of her sword. The eye in the pommel blinked once, slowly, its dark pupil reflecting nothing and everything all at once.
The path back to the surface was different than the one they had taken down. The roots had rearranged themselves, their once-gnarled surfaces now smooth and gleaming, their silver blossoms glowing like tiny lanterns to light the way. As they climbed, Seraphina caught glimpses of things woven into the wood—fragments of memories, moments frozen in time.
A child's laughter.
A woman's tears.
A king's whispered promise.
The higher they went, the more the air changed. The cloying scent of decay had faded, replaced by something fresher, greener—the crispness of leaves after rain, the richness of freshly turned earth. The roots here were alive in a way they hadn't been before, their surfaces humming with quiet energy.
Then, without warning, the tunnel opened.
Sunlight struck Seraphina's face, so bright after the dimness below that she had to raise a hand to shield her eyes. When her vision adjusted, the sight before her stole her breath.
The great tree stood at the center of the ruined castle courtyard, its massive trunk now free of the blackened corruption that had once twisted its form. Its branches stretched high above, their leaves a vibrant, shimmering silver that cast dappled light across the broken stones. The roots had burst through the castle walls, their growth rapid and relentless, weaving through the crumbling architecture like threads through a tapestry.
And the throne—
The throne was gone.
In its place stood the tree, its roots cradling the space where the cursed seat had once rested. The air here was clean, scrubbed free of the lingering miasma of hunger and deceit.
Lysandra stepped forward, her bare feet pressing into the soft moss that had already begun to spread across the courtyard. She tilted her face toward the sunlight, her silvered eyes reflecting the dance of leaves overhead. "It's over," she whispered.
But Seraphina's gaze was drawn to the edge of the courtyard, where shadows still pooled unnaturally thick. A figure stood there, watching. Tall. Hollow-eyed. The corpse-king's final deception.