They left the chamber in silence, and the silence followed.
Even hours later, back near the surface galleries of the Hollow, Riku could feel its echo in his spine—the weight of the imitation. It wasn't flattery. It wasn't an offering. It was study. And it had chosen him.
Their camp within the Hollow was just above the ash-shelf, where rootlight filtered through narrow fissures. The walls were smooth here, carved not by tools but pressure over time. No vines touched this place. It felt dry, disconnected, and sterile. That was why they'd chosen it.
But Veit hadn't slept since returning.
And now he was muttering.
Kael crouched beside the man's cot, gaze calm, analytical. "He's not fevered."
Riku stood nearby, arms crossed. "And yet he's not hearing us."
Sira paced. "He is hearing us. He just doesn't know we're real."
Veit lay flat on the stone, eyes open, blinking as though watching stars no one else could see. He whispered names they didn't recognize—Ashfray, Mirelan, The Hundred Bell—sometimes with awe, sometimes with regret. Never fear.
Ilven had tried humming again. Even his tone had started to strain.
"He said something about roots," he said now, seated on an overturned crate. "That they were too loud. Too awake. That they knew his memories better than he did."
Sira stopped pacing. "Then it's in him."
Riku didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he knelt beside Veit and watched him breathe. The man's pulse was steady. His body unmarked. But his voice carried something beneath it—like when the stone channels in the forge vibrated before heat rose. The hint of a frequency not fully formed.
"Last night," Riku said quietly, "I dreamed I was in that chamber."
Kael looked at him.
"But it wasn't me standing over the sculpture. It was the sculpture looking down at me."
Ilven swore under his breath.
Sira stepped closer. "It's copying more than shape."
"It's grafting." Riku's voice was low. "Piece by piece."
They all turned back to Veit.
The man blinked once. Then whispered clearly: "You left the other hand behind."
Riku stiffened. "What did you say?"
But Veit had closed his eyes again.
Behind them, Kael stood and began checking his armaments. "We should break camp. Go up. Now."
Sira gave a tight nod. "Too long underground. It's not just space that's wrong. It's time. It lives differently here."
Ilven hesitated. "What about Veit?"
"We bring him," Riku said. "He's not gone. Just… not only him."
He turned, giving one last glance at the roots above, then issued the signal.
Their packs were light. They'd taken no samples, no tools—just themselves, and even that, it seemed, had been too much.
The ascent was slow, cautious. The paths that had seemed smooth before now crackled faintly underfoot, as if the roots had subtly shifted position.
And once—only once—Riku heard a sound behind them. A scraping of root across bark. He turned quickly, glaive half-drawn, but saw nothing.
Still, the sense remained.
They weren't retreating.
They were being allowed to leave.
When they reached the upper root-throne chamber, daylight from the fractured ceiling struck hard against their eyes. Blackridge's ash-swept wind hit like a splash of cold water. Even the air smelled different—clearer, metallic, clean.
Kael exhaled. "Feels like surfacing from a drowning."
Ilven dropped to one knee, clutching the edge of a stone basin. "Gods, I forgot how sky tastes."
Riku watched them, then looked back at the path behind.
Veilroot curled softly around the base of the root-throne, almost gentle now.
He would seal the passage.
Not destroy it. Not yet. But for now, none would descend.
He issued the order to Kael, who immediately summoned the engineering crew. They would use layered drake-stone and ash-binder to create a false root-crown, indistinguishable from the real wall. Only the exact pressure sequence would reopen it—and only Riku would know it.
By dusk, the sun was a smear behind Blackridge's rim, and Veit had begun to stir.
He didn't speak much. Just sat upright, eyes clearer, but distant.
When Riku came to him, Veit looked up slowly and asked, "Why do they want to look like us?"
Riku answered honestly. "Maybe they think it'll let them become us."
Veit nodded once. "Then we should be careful what we are."
That night, Riku stood alone atop the forge wall, wind brushing his hair back.
He looked down at his own hands.
And for a fleeting second, he imagined another pair—mimicked, unfinished—reaching up from the root, learning him gesture by gesture.
And worse, not just learning.
Perfecting.