The first spirit stepped through the archway—a woman clad in armour of woven bark, her eyes twin pools of liquid moonlight. As her bare feet touched the courtyard stones, the moss beneath her bloomed into tiny white flowers that shimmered like crushed stars.
"First Warden," Lysandra breathed, her voice resonating with the tree's song.
More followed. Warriors with spears of living wood. Maidens crowned with silver leaves. Children whose laughter made the air itself ripple. And last—
Anara.
Her form was whole now, unmarred by dagger or roots, her blood-moon hair cascading over shoulders no longer fused with bark. She moved to stand beside the First Warden, their hands clasping in silent understanding.
The song shifted.
No longer just a melody, but a call.
Seraphina felt it tug at her bones, at the very blood in her veins. The fused acorns in her hand burned hotter, their light pulsing in time with the rhythm. She understood now—this was no mere summoning. This was a reckoning. The Herald's corrupted acorn stirred at her feet, its dark core writhing as if trying to escape the light.
"Don't."
The voice came from behind them. The corpse-king stood at the edge of the courtyard, his form no longer decaying but not quite whole either—a spirit caught between worlds. His hollow eyes were fixed on Anara, brimming with centuries of grief.
"You don't know what you're awakening," he whispered.
Anara turned to him, her expression unreadable. "We know exactly what we're waking, brother."
The First Warden raised her hands. The spirits stilled. The song held its breath.
And the earth split open.
The earth yawned open like a great maw, revealing not soil and stone but an endless expanse of swirling mist shot through with veins of silver light. The scent that rose from the fissure was ancient—damp earth and crushed herbs, the metallic tang of first blood, the sweetness of forgotten orchards in bloom.
Lysandra staggered as her scar twisted, its branching lines unravelling into luminous threads that stretched toward the abyss. Her living sword fell from suddenly numb fingers, its wooden blade dissolving into vines that slithered into the crack in the earth.
"It's pulling me apart," she gasped, clutching at her chest. The threads glowed brighter where they connected to her flesh, each one vibrating with the tree's relentless song.
Seraphina lunged for her sister, the fused acorns burning through her glove as she grabbed Lysandra's wrist. The moment their skin touched, the vision struck:
*A cavern deep beneath the world, where something vast and shapeless stirred in fitful slumber. Not evil—never evil—but hungry in the way of all primal things. Roots thicker than castle towers plunged into its amorphous form, their silvered lengths pulsing as they siphoned away drops of its essence. The first theft. The first sin._
The corpse-king's voice pulled her back. "We took what wasn't ours," he said, his hollow eyes fixed on the abyss. "And called it power."
The First Warden stepped forward, her bark armour creaking. "The roots were meant to guard," she intoned. "Not to feed."
Anara moved to stand beside her brother. For the first time, Seraphina saw the resemblance between them—the same stubborn set to their jaws, the same fire banked behind their eyes.
"You tried to stop it," Anara murmured, touching his translucent arm. "That's why you killed me."
The corpse-king shuddered. "I thought if the line ended..."
Above them, the great tree's branches trembled. Its song shifted again—no longer summoning, but severance. The spirits began to fade, their forms dissolving into silver mist that poured into the fissure.
The First Warden was the last to go. She turned to Lysandra, her moonlit eyes softening. "Child of my blood," she whispered. "Will you finish what we began?"
Lysandra's breath came in ragged gasps as the threads pulled tighter. She looked at Seraphina, her silvered eyes full of tears that gleamed like liquid mercury.
"I have to go with them," she said.
The acorns in Seraphina's hand screamed.
The fissure pulsed like a living thing, its edges glowing with veins of silver and gold. The mist within swirled in hypnotic patterns, coalescing into shapes that teased at recognition before dissolving again. The scent of loam and lightning filled the air, sharp enough to make Seraphina's eyes water.
Lysandra's fingers dug into Seraphina's arm as the luminous threads pulled taut. "It's not just taking me," she gasped, her voice layered with the whispers of the roots. "It's taking them - all the hunger, all the stolen power."
The corpse-king moved suddenly, his translucent form flickering like a candle flame in a draft. He reached for the fused acorns in Seraphina's hand, his fingers passing through them as though they were made of smoke. "Break them," he urged, his voice raw with urgency. "Before the song ends."
The First Warden's spirit turned, her bark armour creaking as she fixed the corpse-king with her moonlit gaze. "You would deny the reckoning?"
"No." His hollow eyes burned with a light Seraphina had never seen before. "I would share it."
The tree's song reached a fever pitch, the notes vibrating through Seraphina's teeth. The spirits were nearly gone now, their essence pouring into the abyss in rivers of silver mist. Only Anara and the First Warden remained, their forms already half-dissolved.
Lysandra cried out as another thread tore free from her chest, its luminous length snapping back into the fissure. The scar was unravelling faster now, its intricate branches reduced to frayed ends that glowed like dying embers.
Seraphina looked down at the acorns in her hand. Their fused surface pulsed with heat, the dark core of the corrupted seed still writhing at its centre. She understood suddenly - truly understood - what the corpse-king meant.
This wasn't just about ending the cycle.
It was about healing it.
She met Lysandra's gaze and saw the same realisation reflected in her sister's mercury-filled eyes. Without words, they moved as one - Seraphina raising the acorns high, Lysandra grasping her wrist with the last of her strength.
The impact when they struck the ground sent shockwaves through the courtyard. Stone shattered. Roots surged. Light erupted in a column so bright it seared shadows into the air itself.
And from the heart of the brilliance stepped the First Warden - not as a spirit, but as flesh and blood, her bark armour now living wood that grew seamlessly from her skin. Behind her, Anara and the corpse-king stood whole, their hands clasped, their faces alight with something that looked like peace.
The fissure began to close, its edges knitting together with threads of gold. But Lysandra was still unravelling, her form growing translucent as the last of the scar's threads pulled free.
The First Warden reached for her. "The roots need a warden," she said softly.
Anara touched her brother's shoulder. "And the hunger needs a guardian."
The corpse-king smiled - truly smiled - for the first time in centuries. "We'll take turns."
As the last of the light faded, Seraphina felt Lysandra's hand solidify in hers. The scar on her chest was gone, but her eyes still shone with silver light - though now it was the gentle glow of moonlit leaves, not the fevered burn of dying stars.
Above them, the great tree's branches rustled in a wind that touched nothing else, its song fading into a contented hum. The stones of the ruined courtyard gleamed with veins of living silver, and from between them, tiny green shoots pushed upward toward the sun.
The hunger was sleeping again.
But this time, it wasn't alone.