The descent into the roots of Aethelgard was like walking into the throat of a sleeping giant. The air grew cold, but it wasn't the biting chill of a winter morning; it was the preserved, sterile frost of a tomb that had forgotten the sun. Our footsteps echoed against the white stone stairs, a rhythmic, frantic heartbeat in the belly of the world.
"The Armory of the Unseen," Elara whispered, her hand brushing walls etched with runes of liquid silver. "Legends say the weapons here weren't forged in fire, but grown from the iron-wood of the primordial age. They aren't tools—they're kin."
We reached the base of the stairs and stepped into a vast, circular hall. Thousands of weapons lined the walls—shields that looked like giant, petrified leaves, bows carved from bone-white branches, and spears that shimmered with an inner, aqueous light. But they remained silent as we passed, indifferent to the hands of the living.
In the center of the hall stood a single pedestal of obsidian. Resting upon it was a hilt with no blade—a grip of dark, gnarled wood wrapped in silver wire.
"It's empty," Kaelen grumbled, his eyes scanning the looming shadows. "All this way for a broken relic?"
"It's not broken," Silas corrected, his golden eyes fixed on the pedestal with a look of profound recognition. "It's waiting for a soul to fill the space."
I stepped forward, my breath hitching in my chest. As I drew closer, the emerald light beneath my skin began to pulse in sync with the hilt. This was meant for the Seventh Leaf. It was meant for me. I reached out, my fingers trembling, and closed my hand around the cool, dark wood.
The moment my skin met the hilt, a blade of pure, translucent green light ignited. It wasn't fire; it was solid, humming energy that smelled of summer rain and ozone. The weight was perfect—not a burden to be carried, but an extension of my own intent.
"The Verdant Edge," a voice drifted from the shadows.
We spun around, steel clearing scabbards. Silas stepped in front of me, his body tensed for a killing strike. Out of the darkness stepped a woman draped in tattered gray silk. Her hair was a shock of white, and her eyes were a milky, sightless blue. Yet, she carried herself with a grace that felt like a punch to my gut.
"Who are you?" I demanded, the green blade humming in my hand.
The woman smiled, and the sight of it sent a jolt of electricity through my spine. "You have your mother's fire, Alysia. And your father's stubbornness."
She walked toward me, unafraid of the light. She reached out a weathered hand and touched the silver brand on my shoulder—the mark I now knew was a root-knot. "I am Caelia," she whispered. "The Royal Knight who served your mother. The one Silas was supposed to meet the night the fire took the High-Valleys."
The name hit me like a physical blow. Suddenly, the stone walls dissolved into a memory I hadn't touched in a decade.
I was six years old. The High-Valleys were bathed in the pink light of sunset. I was hiding under a heavy oak table in the library, giggling as a woman with sharp eyes searched for me. She didn't find me—she let me find her. I jumped out and hugged her neck, laughing.
"Caelia! Teach me to hold the sword!" I begged.
"Not yet, Alysia," she said, her expression turning serious. "One day, the world will ask you to be a shield. But for now, just be a girl who loves the sun. Remember the song your mother sings? It's more than a lullaby. It's a map back to us if you ever get lost in the dark."
I blinked, the memory receding, my eyes stinging with fresh tears. I looked at the old woman. She was the woman from the library. She was the one who had taught me my first stance, long before the Hive taught me how to kill.
"You... you stayed here?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"I have guarded this armory for ten years, waiting for the girl with the song in her heart to return," Caelia said. Her sightless eyes seemed to look right through my soul. "But you did not come alone. The rot follows you, Alysia Aedes. Califer has not just returned to the Hive. He has opened the Abyssal Gate. He is no longer just a man."
As she spoke, a low, guttural roar echoed from the stairs we had just descended. The stone walls trembled, and a foul, sulfuric stench filled the air.
"He's here," Silas hissed. "How did he get past the Sentinels?"
"He didn't go past them," Caelia said grimly. "He went under them. The shadow always finds a crack in the root."
We moved further into the hall, passing hundreds of statues rendered in a strange, dark metal. They weren't heroes; they were the Hollowed—failed experiments of kings who had tried to mimic the Tree's power.
At the end of the hall, sitting on a heap of discarded iron, was a figure we didn't expect.
"Vane?" Kaelen hissed, his sword leveled at the man's heart.
The High Inquisitor sat casually, tossing a blackened seed into the air. But his armor was stripped, and his face was pale, his eyes wide with a manic, terrified clarity.
"I wouldn't go any further if I were you, Reaper," Vane said, his voice trembling. "Califer didn't survive the displacement by luck. He made a deal with the things that live below the roots."
Vane pointed to the massive iron vault door behind him. "He's already inside. And he's not looking for the armory. He's looking for the Shadow of the Seed—the part of the power you were too afraid to see."
As if on cue, the vault door groaned. A thick, oily black smoke began to seep through the cracks, smelling of rot and ancient, forgotten graves. The green light of my blade flickered, reacting to a darkness that didn't just want to kill me—it wanted to unmake me.