Nyxsha pounced, a blur of black fur and flashing claws.
Her swipe tore through the air, severing the reaching vine in a spray of glowing, golden sap that misted the glade like blood.
The garden shuddered, a low hiss—like wind through hollowed wood—echoing through the trees.
Azareel gasped, his silver eyes snapping open as the vines recoiled, their tips curling like burned fingers.
Nyxsha stood over him, her massive form a shield, her back arched, her fangs bared in a snarl that shook the moss beneath her paws.
"Back off," she growled, her voice a thunderclap in the eerie quiet.
The garden trembled, leaves quivering, roots twitching.
The air grew heavier, the scent of citrus and honey now laced with something sharper, like sap and hunger.
The earth cracked, a jagged line splitting the moss where Azareel sat.
The berry bush he'd leaned against began to rise, its roots uncoiling like legs, its leaves spiraling upward into shapes that defied nature.
Bark shimmered, softened, and peeled away like silk unwrapping from flesh, revealing something alive, something wrong.
From the garden's heart stepped a figure—tall, curved, and undeniably alive.
A woman, if she could be called that, formed from twisted bark and blooming flesh.
Her skin glowed with veins of gold and green, smooth as polished wood yet soft as petals.
Her eyes opened slowly, deep amber pools with no whites, no pupils—only a hunger softened by an unearthly beauty.
Long vines spiraled around her waist like a sash, their crimson leaves clinging to her skin in delicate patterns, more decorative than modest.
Her hair, a tangle of flowering branches, moved gently, as if stirred by a wind that didn't exist.
Her full lips, stained like crushed berries, curved into a smile that was both inviting and predatory.
The Dryad had awakened.
Nyxsha stepped forward instinctively, her massive form a barrier between Azareel and the figure.
Her claws gleamed, her golden eyes blazing with defiance.
Azareel sat frozen, his silver eyes wide, his breath shallow, caught between wonder and unease.
The garden pulsed around them, its vines and trees leaning closer, as if drawn to the Dryad's presence.
Her amber eyes flicked from Nyxsha to Azareel, her smile deepening, a silent promise woven into the air.
.
.
.
The garden no longer rustled—it listened.
The air hummed with a quiet, predatory awareness, the moss pulsing faintly, the vines quivering like attentive ears.
At its heart stood Sylvara, the Dryad, her bare feet rooted in the soft earth as if she'd been carved from a dream and awakened in flesh.
Vines coiled behind her like wings of silk and bark, their tips curling with subtle intent, as if the garden itself were an extension of her will.
Nyxsha stood between them, her massive feline-lupine form a wall of bristling black fur, her golden eyes blazing with suspicion.
Her claws were half-drawn, glinting in the corpse-light, her tail lashing like a whip ready to strike.
The Abyss's stillness was a lie, and Sylvara's serene beauty was its prettiest deception.
Azareel, oblivious, sat cross-legged on the moss, his silver-white hair catching the glow of the berry bushes, a half-eaten berry in his hand.
His silver eyes, sparkled with innocent delight, as if the garden were a nursery rather than a trap.
Sylvara's lips curved, her voice low and honeyed, aching with a quiet longing.
"I am Sylvara," she said, bowing her head slightly, her flowering hair swaying like a living crown.
"The Blooming Hunger. The Verdant Siren. Bride of the Buried Root." Her smile was warm, too gentle, a lure wrapped in maternal care.
"I am not your enemy."