That night, Lucas dreamed of the seed again.
But this time, it wasn't dormant.
He stood inside a ribcage of roots—blackened, gnarled, pulsing with heat. At the center, a tree grew upside down, its branches piercing the soil above, bleeding fire. Hanging from its limbs were pieces of his memory—his mother's voice, Corin's laugh, a blood-soaked pact.
And beneath it all, a voice spoke.
Not Malgros. Not Ephraal.
The Seed.
"I am what grows when vengeance takes root," it said. "You swallowed me thinking I would save you. I am not salvation. I am transformation."
Lucas reached for one of the memories—his mother's face, smiling in the kitchen, singing an old song.
The tree pulsed.
The memory withered.
"You can't hold onto both," the Seed said. "Not power and love. Not fire and self."
Lucas clenched his fists. "Then I'll choose."
The Seed laughed.
"No. You already did. When you spilled your blood and gave yourself to the fire, you chose. All that remains is what will grow."
Lucas fell to his knees.
From his chest, roots burst—veins turning black, fire coiling in his eyes. He screamed.
And woke to find his skin glowing.
Not with flame.
With branches.
Corin stood in the doorway, wide-eyed. "Lucas…"
But he was already standing.
And his shadow no longer moved like a man's.