The world dissolved into white agony.
Seraphina's back arched as the corrupted seed burned through her tunic, its tendrils burrowing deep beneath her skin. She could feel it spreading—threads of ice winding through her veins, whispering promises of power and oblivion. Her fingers spasmed around the dagger's hilt as its eye snapped open wide, the pupil dilating until it swallowed all the gold.
Lysandra's scream cut through the haze: "Sera!"
A root lashed out from the wall, wrapping around the corrupted figure's wrist with a wet crack. The thing wearing her sister's face hissed, its elongated fingers tightening their grip on the seed—
—just as the dagger moved of its own accord.
The blade twisted in Seraphina's grip, plunging toward her chest. She barely managed to deflect it, the edge slicing across her ribs instead of piercing her heart. Blood welled hot and bright, splattering across the corrupted seed.
The effect was instantaneous.
The seed shrieked, its tendrils recoiling as her blood sizzled against its surface. The dagger's eye rolled wildly, its gaze flickering between gold and black as though fighting itself.
Riven was at her side in an instant, his root-like fingers pressing against the wound. "Your bloodline," he gasped, his golden eyes wide. "It remembers the old covenants."
The corrupted figure wrenched free from the root's grasp with a sound of tearing flesh. Its stolen face twisted in rage as it stared at the smoking seed in its hand. "Clever," it spat. "But not clever enough."
It lunged again—
—just as Lysandra changed.
Silver roots erupted from her skin, weaving into a living armour that glowed with eerie light. She moved faster than thought, intercepting the attack with a shield of intertwined tendrils. The impact sent shockwaves through the cavern, dust shaking loose from the ceiling.
"Run!" Lysandra shouted, her voice layered with the whispers of the roots.
Seraphina stumbled back, her vision swimming. The wound in her side burned, but the pain was distant, muted by the adrenaline singing in her veins. Riven's arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her toward the original tunnel.
Behind them, the sounds of battle escalated—the wet crunch of roots meeting corrupted flesh, the hiss of silver against darkness. Lysandra was holding her own, but for how long?
The dagger in Seraphina's hand twitched, its eye now fixed on her bleeding side. A realisation struck her with the force of a lightning bolt.
"It wants my blood," she gasped.
Riven's grip tightened. "No—"
But she was already moving.
Seraphina raised the dagger high and plunged it into her wound.
The world exploded into colour and sound.
The silence in the cavern was thick and heavy, broken only by the distant drip of water echoing through the earthen walls. Seraphina's fingers trembled around the hilt of the transformed dagger, its warmth seeping into her skin like the first rays of dawn after a long night. The blade pulsed faintly, its wooden veins shifting as though alive, responding to the rhythm of her breath.
Lysandra collapsed to her knees, her silvered eyes dimming as the last of the root armour receded beneath her skin. The branching scar across her chest glowed faintly, the intricate patterns now laced with threads of gold—Riven's essence mingling with her own. She clutched her side, her breath ragged, as if the transformation had taken more from her than she could afford to give.
Riven moved to her side, his root-like fingers pressing against her shoulder. "You pushed too far," he murmured, his voice rough with concern.
Lysandra shook her head, her gaze fixed on the ashen remains of the corrupted seed scattered across the cavern floor. "It wasn't enough," she whispered. "The hunger isn't gone. It's just... changed."
A cold draft slithered through the chamber, carrying with it the faintest whisper of laughter—a sound too layered, too knowing, to be mere echo. The roots embedded in the walls shivered in response, their surfaces darkening momentarily before returning to their healthy glow.
Seraphina tightened her grip on the dagger. "We need to move."
Riven's golden eyes flicked toward the tunnel leading back to the surface. "They'll be waiting for us."
"Who?" Seraphina asked, though she already knew the answer.
Riven's lips thinned. "The ones who felt the dagger awaken."
The ascent through the tunnel was slower than their descent, every step weighed down by exhaustion and the lingering dread of what awaited them above. The air grew colder the closer they climbed, the scent of damp earth giving way to something sharper—charred wood and iron.
When they finally emerged, the world outside was unrecognisable.
The ruins of the old castle were now overgrown with thick, gnarled roots—some as black as obsidian, others shimmering with the same silver-gold hue as Lysandra's scars. The sky above was a bruised purple, the sun hidden behind a veil of unnatural clouds that churned like a living thing.
And standing at the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by figures clad in tattered royal garb, was a man Seraphina had hoped never to see again.
Her father.
But not as he had been in life.
His body was a grotesque amalgamation of flesh and root, his limbs elongated, his fingers ending in sharpened thorns. His eyes—once a cold, calculating blue—were now pools of swirling darkness, the same corruption that had infested her sister swimming within them.
He smiled, revealing teeth like splintered bone. "Welcome home, daughter."
Lysandra staggered back a step, her breath catching. "No. This isn't possible."
Riven's root-like hair lashed at the air, his golden eyes narrowing. "The hunger is learning," he said, his voice grim. "It's wearing the faces of the dead now."
The figures surrounding her father stepped forward, their movements unnaturally synchronised. Their faces were familiar—lords and ladies of the old court, generals and servants, all twisted by the same corruption.
And at their feet, the earth itself trembled, as if something beneath it stirred in anticipation.
Seraphina raised the dagger, its blade humming with power. "Then we remind it why it was buried in the first place."
Her father laughed, the sound echoing through the ruins like a death knell. "You cannot kill what was never alive, little queen."
The ground beneath them split open, and the hunger surged forth.