It tasted like honey and fire when it touched Jude's lips, sweet and ancient, a blessing passed through blood and breath. The light filled his chest, then pulsed outward, connecting to each of the twelve women as if invisible golden threads had always tethered them together and only now began to glow.
The beds of root lifted gently, tilting the women upward, presenting their bodies like offerings to the heart of the tree. They were radiant - limbs glistening, mouths parted in ecstasy, eyes half-lidded with reverence. The golden pool rippled in slow pulses that matched the rhythm of Jude's heart. And then he understood:
He wasn't meant to finish anything.
He was meant to begin.
Rose arched toward him, her hand sliding down his chest, palm resting over his heart.
"Do you feel it now?" she whispered.
He nodded, throat dry. "It's us."
She smiled. "It always was."
