Four years ago-part III
The Whispered Void shimmered—a blacker-than-black shadow against the gloom, its limbs elongating and contracting like smoke caught in a restless wind.
It didn't move like flesh but flowed, defying gravity as it glided toward them. Its form was a grotesque mockery of life, unsettling precisely because it should not exist.
The air around it grew cold, thin, and the very ground beneath Hatim's feet rippled, blurring the edges of his vision. The internal hum—the discordant vibration—intensified, pressing down on his mind like a physical weight.
"It feeds on harmony! Its presence unravels!" Granny Maldri's voice, usually a calm anchor, was sharp with alarm. Her eyes, wide with ancient, primal fear, fixed on the encroaching horror.
The Whispered Void surged, its insubstantial form solidifying just enough to lash out—not with a strike, but a touch: pure, burning cold aimed directly at Lyra.
She stumbled, disoriented by the Void's proximity, eyes wide with terror as the creature loomed over her.
"LYRA!" Hatim screamed, voice raw and desperate. He threw himself forward, a clumsy shield, but he was too slow, too human.
Then—a flash.
Granny Maldri. Her small frame, usually bent with age, straightened with impossible strength. Her eyes blazed with fierce, unwavering light, mirroring the emerald glow of the Akar-Charged Blight-Weed she pulled from a hidden pouch.
"By the Ash and the Roots!" she roared, voice echoing with primordial power. "You will not have them!"
She slammed the base of her gnarled staff into the damp earth and, with a guttural chant, ignited the Blight-Weed. It burst into a searing flare of blinding emerald light, crackling with raw, uncontrolled energy that tasted like ash and static on Hatim's tongue.
This was no plant born of True Akar; it was twisted by the Unbinding's chaotic presence—a dangerous weapon Granny Maldri wielded only in extremis.
The emerald light pulsed, raw and wild, forming a shimmering, temporary barrier that forced the Whispered Void back.
The creature recoiled, rippling violently, emitting a soundless shriek that shattered glass inside Hatim's skull. It was a desperate, protective glyph, drawing on dangerous, raw Akar even Granny Maldri rarely dared touch.
The barrier held for a heartbeat. Two.
Long enough.
But as the emerald light faded, the Whispered Void lashed out one final time—not with force, but essence.
It washed over Granny Maldri like an invisible wave, a profound violation. She gasped, a choked sound, then collapsed, face ashen, vibrant eyes dimming.
Color drained from her, leaving a strange, translucent pallor.
Her very being acquired the dull, cold dissonance Hatim had felt in the False Heart plant.
It was the mark of the Unbinding Akar—a spirit blight.
The Whispered Void, still rippling, retreated into the oppressive forest shadows, its purpose fulfilled.
It left behind only a chilling void, a distortion in the air, and the sickly sweet smell of decay.
Hatim scrambled to Granny Maldri, heart pounding like a frantic bird.
"Granny! Are you hurt?"
No visible wound. No blood.
But her skin was cold. Unnaturally so.
When he sought her Akar pulse, it felt distorted, fractured—like a song played out of tune.
Before Hatim could move closer, Lyra sank to one knee beside Maldri, her hands trembling as she clutched the satchel of bone fragments tighter. Her face was pale, lips parted in a silent plea.
"Granny!" she whispered, voice breaking. "Hold on! Please…"
Her hands hovered helplessly over Maldri, as if willing the blight away, but the poison was unseen, insidious. Tears welled, tracing silent paths down her cheeks.
She looked up at Hatim, eyes wide with terror and fury.
"We have to find a way. There has to be a way."
Hatim stared at Maldri, the horror blossoming in his mind.
This was no sickness.
It was fundamental undoing.
A scream built in his throat—a primal roar of fear and helplessness for the woman who was everything.
"NOOOOOOO!"
Hatim jolted awake, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat.
His own scream still ringing in his ears.
His body slick with sweat, heart hammering against ribs like it wanted escape.
His hands felt wrong.
Scars across knuckles hadn't been there yesterday.
Muscle along forearm leaner, harder.
A beard he didn't remember growing scratched his collarbone.
Kander watched from shadows, a waterskin dangling from fingers now marked with fresh glyph-burns.
"Memory's a stubborn thing," he murmured. "It claws back when you least expect it."
The raw stone floor beneath was real, unyielding.
The single guttering torch flickered, casting warped shadows—mercifully banishing the vivid nightmare.
Hatim sat up, disoriented, scanning the unfamiliar room.
The dream clung—a cold touch of Unbinding, raw pain in his chest.
He was in Kander's chamber, the one he'd been brought to after the Babs.
A dream.
Just a dream.
Yet the ache was so real.