Riven's body dissolved into a storm of swirling blackened roots and dark fluid. For a heartbeat, the corruption seemed to swell with triumph—until the droplets hanging in the air began to glow.
Gold.
Not the sickly yellow of fading light, but the rich, vibrant gold of sunlight through autumn leaves. The droplets hung suspended, pulsing like tiny stars as the roots holding them recoiled with a shriek that shook the cavern.
Lysandra gasped, clutching her chest as her branching scar blazed to life. "He's in the roots," she whispered. "He's—"
The golden droplets moved.
They streaked through the air like shooting stars, embedding themselves in the blackened roots that covered the cavern walls. Where they struck, the corruption burned away, revealing healthy wood beneath. The creature screamed again, its form writhing as patches of its own body began to glow.
Seraphina's dagger flared white-hot in her hand. The eye in its pommel snapped open—not the blank silver of before, but a piercing gold that matched Riven's essence.
"Now!" The voice was unmistakably Riven's, though it came from everywhere at once. "Strike now!"
She didn't hesitate.
The blade sank deep into the creature's chest, its edge parting the twisted roots like water. Light erupted from the wound—not just gold, but every colour of the living earth: the deep brown of fertile soil, the vibrant green of new growth, the silver of moonlit leaves.
The creature's scream cut off abruptly as its form began to unravel, roots untwisting with eerie precision. Lysandra stumbled forward, her hands outstretched as silver fluid poured from her scar in rivulets. The liquid struck the unravelling roots, weaving through them like threads through a loom.
A new shape began to form.
Taller than the corruption.
Kinder than the Gardener.
Riven—but not as he was.
His body was formed of healthy roots now, his skin the rich brown of sun-warmed earth. His hair remained root-like, but it shimmered with gold and silver sap. When he opened his eyes, they held the same piercing gold as the dagger's pommel.
The last of the corruption dissolved into the earth with a final, shuddering sigh.
Silence.
Then—
From above, the unmistakable sound of stone shattering.
Riven's new form tensed. "The hunger has found new hands," he said, his voice layered with the whispers of the roots.
Lysandra swayed on her feet, her silvered eyes dimming. "And they're breaking the last seals."
Seraphina tightened her grip on the dagger, its glow pulsing in time with her heartbeat. "Then we don't have much time."
The air in the cavern still hummed with the aftermath of Riven's transformation. Tiny golden motes floated through the stale air like fireflies, illuminating the now-healthy roots that wove through the chamber walls. Their surfaces pulsed gently, as though breathing in time with the new Root-King's steady presence.
Lysandra swayed where she stood, her fingers pressed to the branching scar on her chest. The silver fluid that had poured from it now formed delicate traceries across her skin, hardening into something resembling the bark-like patterns on Riven's arms. When she lifted her face, Seraphina saw her pupils had changed—no longer round, but shaped like tiny leaf silhouettes, their edges blurred with silver light.
"It's spreading," Lysandra murmured, more to herself than to them. She flexed her fingers, watching as tiny rootlets extended from her fingertips before retracting. "I can feel them. All of them."
Riven stepped forward, his movements smooth yet strangely weightless, as though the earth itself carried him. He reached for Lysandra's hand, his root-like fingers intertwining with hers. A pulse of golden light traveled up her arm, momentarily brightening the silver veins beneath her skin.
"You're becoming what I was meant to be," he said quietly. "The bridge between root and crown."
Seraphina's dagger chose that moment to grow uncomfortably warm in her grip. The eye in its pommel rolled wildly before fixing on the ceiling above them. A thin crack had appeared in the cavern roof, dust sifting down in lazy spirals.
"They're here," Seraphina said, her voice tight.
The ground trembled in response—not the violent shaking from before, but something more deliberate. Purposeful. The roots lining the walls stiffened, their tips sharpening into defensive points.
Riven's golden eyes darkened. "The hunger has taken flesh again." He released Lysandra's hand, turning toward the tunnel they'd entered through. "But it's not coming from above."
A wet, tearing sound echoed through the chamber as the far wall split open, revealing a new passage that hadn't existed moments before. The air that rushed out was frigid, carrying with it the scent of frost and something metallic—like blood on snow.
Lysandra inhaled sharply. "That's not possible. The deep roots never freeze."
"They do now," Riven said grimly.
Seraphina moved toward the new passage, her dagger's glow intensifying as she neared the opening. The walls here were laced with veins of ice that shimmered unnaturally, their surfaces too smooth, too perfect. They reflected the dagger's light in jagged patterns that made her eyes ache.
At the edge of the light's reach, something moved.
A figure, tall and lean, its outline blurred by the twisting ice. It took a step forward, then another, moving with the eerie grace of something that had forgotten how to be human. Pale hands emerged first, their fingers too long, their nails darkened to near black. Then the face—
Seraphina's breath caught.
It was her sister.
Not Lysandra—her elder sister, the one who had stood beside their father with a knife and a smile. But her features were distorted, stretched too thin over bones that had reshaped themselves. Her eyes were the worst part—still the same cold blue, but now swimming with inky tendrils that pulsed in time with her movements.
"Hello, little sister," the thing wearing her sister's face said, its voice layered with whispers. "Did you miss me?"
Behind her, Lysandra made a sound like a wounded animal. "No," she breathed. "Not her. Anyone but her."
The figure smiled, revealing teeth filed to sharp points. "Oh yes," it crooned. "And she's been so very hungry."
The frigid air from the new passage coiled around Seraphina's ankles like a living thing as she stared at the distorted version of her sister. The dagger in her hand pulsed with increasing urgency, its warmth now bordering on painful.
"You're not her," Seraphina said, her voice steady despite the cold knot forming in her stomach.
The figure tilted its head, the motion too fluid, too wrong. "Not entirely," it admitted, its voice shifting between her sister's familiar tones and something far older. "But enough remains to remember how much she hated you."
Behind Seraphina, Lysandra let out a shuddering breath. "The hunger's learned," she whispered. "It's using our memories against us."
Riven stepped forward, his root-like hair lashing at the air. "Clever," he mused, his golden eyes narrowing. "But still just a puppet." He raised a hand, and the cavern walls responded—healthy roots surging forward to encircle the corrupted figure.
The thing wearing her sister's face laughed, the sound like cracking ice. "Puppets can still strangle their masters."
It moved.
Faster than anything so distorted should be capable of. One moment it stood at the passage's entrance—the next, it was upon Riven, those elongated fingers wrapping around his throat. Where they touched, his bark-like skin blackened and cracked.
Lysandra screamed, a sound that seemed to shake the very roots around them. Silver fluid erupted from her scar, arcing through the air like liquid lightning. It struck the corrupted figure square in the chest, sending it staggering back with a hiss.
Seraphina didn't hesitate. She lunged, her dagger flashing—
—only for the figure to catch her wrist with terrifying ease. Up close, she could see the corruption swimming beneath its stolen skin, tendrils of darkness writhing like eels in water.
"Poor little sister," it crooned. "Always swinging that knife. Always missing what's right in front of you."
Its free hand plunged into its own chest, emerging with something that glistened black and silver—a twisted mockery of the acorn Seraphina had carried.
"The real question," it whispered, pressing the corrupted seed against Seraphina's chest, "is how much of you still remains to fight back."
The pain was instantaneous. White-hot and all-consuming, radiating from the point of contact like wildfire. Seraphina's vision whited out as she felt something hook deep inside her—not her flesh, but her very essence.
Somewhere distant, Lysandra was screaming her name.
Riven's golden light flared bright against her closed eyelids.
And the dagger—
The dagger answered.