Chapter 4:
In Every Walk With Nature
> The Treaty of the Trees, an ancient pact sealed with the spirits of the northern forests, wove both peace and prosperity into the land. By this concord, the spirits allowed safe passage for trade, while their wilder kin—creatures of formidable wrath—remained bound within the northern reaches. Yet treaties, like roots, grow deep and hidden, and not all roots stay in their soil.
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> — Histories of the First Branch, Carlin Litwillow
Rowan Greaves made another note in his densely marked leather notebook as his latest project, now gaining its first glimmers of sapience, quickly developed a psychotic urge to kill and began thrashing violently within its organic cage.
He sighed. Instilling sentience in young plants was delicate work, even with his bloodline talent. If done correctly, the plant would progress through natural stages of intelligence over its lifetime much more rapidly, drawing aether from the environment to nurture its growth and awareness. But for some reason, Rowan’s creations inevitably seemed to hunger for violence and general maiming.
Optimist that he was, Rowan had initially tried to pitch this quirk as a unique feature, proposing to Elder Verdigris that his plants be used as a defensive network around Mount Kisai. The Elder had even entertained the idea—until Rowan’s first full-sized prototype developed enough intelligence to feign docility. It had actually tricked Rowan into thinking it was tame before sprouting venomous bulbs and secreting one into his tea. Only then did Rowan realize he wasn’t just creating aggressive plants. He was creating plants with murder in their very roots.
With another sigh, Rowan tapped his core, sending a filament of life aether into the device embedded in the organic wood of the cage where the small onion monster writhed. The device hummed to life, gradually siphoning the aether from the creature, draining its rage-fueled vitality and returning it to a mere onion sprout. Fortunately, this method worked only on seedlings—anything older, and the device might fail. He shuddered at the thought of a cultivator powerful enough to extract the life from a fully grown being.
As the creature weakened, Rowan shuffled his notes and prepared for another attempt. He gathered a fresh onion sprout from the box to his left on the cluttered oaken worktable, which, like all the furniture on Mount Kisai, was a product of cultivated growth. Almost everything used or consumed by the Sect of Grasses was nurtured from seed to form. His laboratory was a riot of colors and textures, flowering plants spreading across the walls and spilling over flat surfaces, their lush curves framing the space in tangled, organic lines. Tapestries of woven grasses, dyed in delicate greens and blues, draped the walls, illustrating the creation of Avalon’s First Branch, Rowan’s home, and the fabled Second Branch above it—a mystical land of ascension from which no stories ever returned. To ascend was to say farewell forever; everyone knew that when you ascended from the First Branch, one could never return.
The device’s whirring died down, snapping Rowan from his brief reverie. He glanced back at the onion sprout, now inert, its blackened aether-fueled growth flaking off in brittle crusts that dropped onto the cage floor. One day, Rowan mused, if left forgotten in some wild patch of land, this onion might grow untouched for a thousand years and look back on its dream of rage with faint, root-bound memories. The thought quieted the guilt that lingered from removing its spark of life aether. It wasn’t death, not really; it was more a pause—a chance, perhaps, for renewal.
It was a comforting thought, though Rowan knew this onion’s fate likely lay in the bottom of a soup pot. Such was nature’s way, as Elder Verdigris often reminded him. Life in balance meant humans, too, had their place in the cycle of consumption and growth. “We are the shepherds, yes, but also the sheep,” Verdigris would say. “Only fools forget that.”
And, Rowan thought grimly, only fools forget the limits of their own gift. In a Sect that prized harmony and reverence for life, Rowan’s bloodline talent, Ensoulment—the talent that had raised his family to prominence—had become a bitter irony. Rowan Greaves, meant to be a creator of life, seemed only capable of producing agents of death. A shiver ran through him, the green and tan robes of his sect clinging, stifling, as he tried and failed to shake off the vision of himself as a harbinger of ruin.
A sudden croak echoed from the next room, jerking him from his thoughts. Rowan’s eyes widened as he rushed toward the small chamber that had once been a closet. He’d converted it into a monitoring space, growing shelves from the walls and installing several aether-infused devices, crafted by the sect’s aethersmiths. How they managed to incorporate metal components without creating flame in the process was still a mystery to him.
The second device from the left blinked rapidly, and the alarm toad he’d stationed beside it was croaking in alarm. Rowan tossed it a dried cricket from the bin at his feet, his eyes darting to the readings on the device.
The blood drained from his face as he deciphered the flashing symbols.
Fire.
Somewhere in the southern forests, at the very edge of the Branch, someone had started a fire.
XXX
Jericho had been gathering wood for some time, muscles aching with fatigue, though he pushed on despite the weariness settling heavily into his bones. he had not slept since…well, since waking up in the fighting pits below the Seal. The forest was unlike anything he’d known, a strange beauty surrounding him that was as mesmerizing as it was foreign. He kept a steady eye on his surroundings, wary of the larger creatures he occasionally glimpsed moving in the distance. He was grateful to stay out of sight, avoiding anything bigger than the small creatures flitting through the undergrowth.
After scouring the forest floor for fuel, he’d managed to scrape together a knee-high pile of wood—just enough, he hoped, for a small fire. Most of what he found was damp, the branches green or wet to the core, nothing like the dry, resinous scragbushes or acrid firemoss he’d relied on in the Underroots. But a few pieces had seemed dry enough, and he was too exhausted to keep searching.
Settling in a small clearing, he set to work. Stripping off his loincloth to use as a makeshift string, he looped it around a bow-shaped stick, gagging at the smell. His fingers moved clumsily, his hands trembling with fatigue. He struggled to keep the string taut, the damp wood slipping from his grip as he tried to brace the spindle against the makeshift fireboard. His movements were jerky, imprecise; his mind felt heavy, and it took everything he had to push past the exhaustion weighing him down.
As he sawed the bow back and forth, he could feel his patience fraying. The wood seemed to resist him at every step, barely heating, slipping out of its notch at every other pass of the bow. Frustration surged as he sawed harder, his grip white-knuckled. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he finally coaxed a faint ember from the worn recess. He touched it to the tinder, coaxing it with shallow breaths, feeling his own body pulse with the fragile ember’s rise and fall.
Finally, with a spluttering crackle, a small flame took hold. Jericho sagged back on his heels, relief washing over him as he fed the fire a bit more wood, struggling to keep it alive against the damp chill in the air. The fire crackled and spat, but it held, and that was enough.
Jericho knelt before the fire, steadying his breath and clearing his mind. He had no guide for what he was about to attempt, only fragments of knowledge Legion had shared. But he reasoned that cultivation must be possible for him—even without instruction. He had been born with aether in his core, a rarity that set him apart from others. People weren’t supposed to have aether from birth, and yet, he did.
That meant, he assumed, that even with his meridians still closed, he should be able to draw in more aether. After all, if cultivators needed aether to open their meridians, they must have some way to absorb it before that opening took place. And if it was possible, then maybe he could find that way, too. The only source of aether he could think of was the fire before him. Surely fire would contain fire aether—something elemental, connected to its nature. He was assuming much, but what else could he do?
With nothing but the crackle of the fire to accompany him, he inhaled deeply, synchronizing his breath with the rhythm of the flames. Closing his eyes, he stilled himself. His core appeared through his spiritual sight—a hollow, gleaming vessel. He felt his body’s boundaries with acute awareness, the fire’s warmth seeping into his skin.
Jericho summoned his will, shaping it like a probe, as he had done before with aether. But as his will brushed against the edges of his skin, it hit an invisible barrier. His focus scattered like ash in the wind, gnawing frustration sparking within him. Undeterred, he condensed his will again, honing it into a denser, sharper tendril, and pushed it outward, straining until it snapped back, leaving him momentarily dizzy.
Anger flared, hot and quick, feeding his resolve. He gathered his will again, refining it into a spear of iron focus. With everything he had, he drove it toward his core. A sharp, psychic snap rippled through him, clarity surging through his senses before unconsciousness swept him away.
When he awoke, the fire was still burning, casting dancing shadows around him. He scoffed at his recklessness—he should not force this process when he had no knowledge of how it worked. But failure was nothing new, and he had learned from it. He settled himself with renewed patience, extending his will gently this time, easing it past his skin’s boundary like a quiet stream trickling through cracks in stone.
He took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the fire on his skin, and tried to extend his will beyond his body, pushing his awareness toward the fire aether he knew was there, just out of reach. But as his will brushed against the boundary of his skin, it resisted, like a taut membrane that held him locked inside.
He steadied himself, gathering his focus, and pushed harder, condensing his will into a concentrated spear aimed at piercing this unseen barrier. With a final surge, he forced it through, and instantly, the world exploded around him. His senses shattered with the sheer flood of new information. Colors, sensations, shapes—impossible details bombarded his mind. The warmth of the fire became a blazing inferno, every ember an intricate latticework of energy. The very air vibrated with layers of aetheric currents he had never even sensed, every element throbbing with intensity.
The overload was blinding, deafening, filling his mind with so much raw detail that it was like being submerged in a raging river, helpless as it swept him along. His control slipped, and the world blinked out as he tumbled into unconsciousness.
When he came to, the fire was still crackling softly before him, its warmth steady, unchanging. His head throbbed with the memory of that overwhelming surge, but there was no time for hesitation. He adjusted, pulling his focus inward, more cautious yet still determined. This time, he condensed his will carefully, like pressing a blade’s edge rather than a hammer’s strike. He moved slowly, letting his awareness seep out, inching past his skin’s barrier with a gentle, deliberate force.
Once through, he could feel his senses extend, brushing against the world beyond, but not flooding him this time. Instead, a thin layer of awareness unfolded before him, limited to wherever his will touched. It was as if he were seeing through a new set of eyes, sensing the fire not as heat but as a pulse of aether that vibrated, calling to him. His awareness stretched, touching the rough bark of the wood, sensing the tightly bound life force woven within its fibers. He could feel the fire consuming it, breaking it down, layer by layer, and drawing out the aether held within.
Jericho focused, feeling the fire aether thrumming, close enough to sense but frustratingly intangible. The warmth of the fire called to him, and he knew he needed to draw it into himself, to let it become part of his core. But how?
He began with the simplest image he could summon: a hand reaching out, cupped and inviting. He shaped his will into this hand, visualizing it as a steady, open vessel. His awareness hovered around the flames, holding the aether like water cradled in his palm, and with a soft pull, he tried to draw it inward. The fire aether slipped away instantly, as though repelled by the invitation, scattering his effort like ash in the wind.
He breathed out, frustration flaring. This wasn't a simple task—it required something deeper. Refusing to give in, he tried again, this time visualizing his will as a channel, a conduit through which the aether could flow. He focused on becoming empty, creating an inner path that would lead the fire’s energy directly to his core, a continuous passage to welcome its essence. He held this image firmly, and he felt a faint shift as the aether began to move, just a whisper of warmth trickling toward him. But as soon as it reached the edges of his awareness, it fizzled, the connection breaking before it could even pass through.
His chest tightened with frustration. Each method felt unnatural, like trying to scoop sand with his fingers only for it to slip through. There had to be a better way—a way that mirrored the natural process of the fire itself. Fire was inchoate, and intangible, but it also flowed. Not like air, not really; not if you have spent any amount of time staring into the depths of a flame.
A thought stirred in his mind, an image drawn from the deep memories of the Underroots. He recalled a cavern lake he had once seen drain into unseen depths, a whirlpool spiraling as it pulled the water down with an effortless, steady strength. The answer clicked into place, almost as if it had been waiting for him to discover it.
He gathered his will, attempting to form it not as a reaching hand or an empty channel but as a swirling vortex—a calm, constant pull that invited the aether with quiet inevitability. But the concept was excruciatingly difficult to grasp. Hours passed in agonizing failure as he wrestled with his intent, his frustration building each time his focus slipped or the image unraveled. His anger simmered at each attempt that dissolved into nothing, like a knot growing tighter with each pull.
He knew that his anger made it worse, that each flare of frustration only broke his concentration further. He tried to press it down, to quiet the rage that gnawed at him, but it was easier said than done. And still, the fire aether pulsed at the edge of his perception, just out of reach, an insistent reminder of each failed effort.
Finally, fatigue crept in, weighing on his mind, blurring the edges of his thoughts until they dulled, like iron bent under constant strain. His muscles ached, his thoughts drifted. Exhaustion stole over him in a heavy, settling calm, and his anger faded as his mind edged closer to sleep. He felt his grip on the process loosen as a strange clarity emerged from the haze, the memory of the whirlpool from the Underroots. He stopped reaching, stopped trying to seize the aether, and instead let his will settle naturally, gently, into the shape of the spiral.
The aether responded. With a suddenness that startled him, he felt the fire’s essence latch onto the vortex he had unwittingly created. A thin trickle of warmth spiraled inward, cautious at first, but then the flow grew stronger, more confident. It felt like breathing for the first time, the fire’s energy winding down into his core, filling him with something alive and radiant.
Relief surged through him, a rush of emotion that overwhelmed his fragile focus. The spiral broke, his concentration slipped, and the aether scattered, dissipating before he could draw it fully in. A cry of dismay escaped his lips, a sharp echo in the quiet forest.
But the moment had given him what he needed–proof that he could do this. Heart pounding, he steadied himself, gathering his will again with renewed purpose, energized by the memory of that fleeting success. He redoubled his efforts, reforming the spiral, letting his awareness settle into the gentle, steady pull he had managed before. This time, he held it firm, his mind unwavering.
The fire aether answered, spiraling inward, faster now, feeding his core with a vibrant energy that pulsed through him. It filled him slowly, like water trickling into a vessel, the aether winding into his being. His senses hummed with the warmth of the fire, its raw, consuming essence settling into his core, becoming a part of him.
When he opened his eyes, the fire had dwindled to smoldering embers, the wood completely blackened, its energy now his. He had drawn the aether into himself. Only a droplet compared to the empty tomb that was his core, which had held a triumvirate ocean for his entire life until mere hours ago.
In that moment of triumph, he felt a familiar tingle down his spine. Legion’s presence materialized beside him, as silent and cold as ever, his white eyes gleaming in the dim light.
You have done well, Ar'Kaen, Legion murmured, his voice distant yet carrying a rare note of approval. To stave off death and claim the energy of the world—such feats are for those who walk the path of greatness. Even the gods tread this way. I am… pleased you continue to follow it.
Relief washed over Jericho, an overwhelming rush of emotion breaking through his weariness. He had been alone, feeling adrift in an unknown world, but now his companion, in many ways his only family, was returned to him. Instinctively, his hand reached out, fingers trembling as he went to scratch the hound’s head.
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We are an amalgamation of a million souls, sacrificed willingly for the greater good of our world, Legion’s voice echoed, cold but with a faint softness Jericho had rarely heard. It is absurd to reduce us to a creature fond of head scratches.
But Jericho felt a subtle shift—the slightest lean into his hand. He managed a weary smile, saying nothing, feeling grounded by Legion’s steady presence, an anchor that reminded him of his past, of his terrible purpose in this place of beauty.
Yet, a spark of curiosity stirred, and Jericho’s gaze drifted to his right hand. Slowly, he reached into his core, coaxing a thin thread of fire aether to rise, bypassing the closed meridians with clumsy gouts of poorly-focused aether. A flicker of flame danced in his palm, its light casting shadows over his tired face. The flame felt smaller, almost fragile without the deep well of aether he’d drawn from before. The drain on his core was sharp and immediate, a stark reminder of the limits he now faced. But as the flame wavered, an idea flared to life in his mind as he glanced around at the abundant foliage.
XXX
Rowan had been alarmed, honored, delighted, and utterly terrified when Elder Verdigris insisted he accompany her to investigate.
He had rushed from his chambers, down the root-bound tunnels that the Sect had coaxed from the mountain’s stone. The walls, interwoven with age-old roots, had radiated a quiet pulse of life, the air carrying a faint, earthy tang. Emerging from the tunnels into the communal garden, he’d been met by the soft rush of a stream winding under a raw stone bridge, and delicate aetherlights strung across the garden had flickered in shades of violet and blue, stirring gently as he passed.
He’d bolted up the adjoining path, twisting up the steep face of Mount Kisai. The walkways grew steeper as he climbed, cutting back and forth along rocky terraces dotted with hardy plants clinging to stone edges. The mountain had loomed solitary, its summit wrapped in mist and silent grandeur. This peak, chosen ages ago by the Sect of Grasses for the life aether that poured from its core, formed the heart of their way of life, its energy feeding their growth and mastery.
Rowan’s pace had slowed as he reached Elder Verdigris’s cabin, nestled among the increasingly elaborate estates that dotted the upper slopes. Compared to these grand homes, her dwelling was restrained but elegant, imbued with the Elder’s presence.
At her garden gate, he had paused, smoothing his robes and steeling himself. With a respectful nod, he had stepped forward and clasped his hands, bowing deeply in the formal greeting of their sect. “Elder Verdigris, I, Root Greaves, come to seek your guidance and wisdom.”
The Elder had looked up from her plants, a warm smile easing across her face, though he had detected a hint of tension in her eyes. She inclined her head in acknowledgment, setting her tools aside as she rose. “Root Greaves,” she had greeted him gently, the kindness of her voice grounding him.
Rowan had delivered his report with care, noting her intent listening, her eyes flickering with a rare unease. Her normally calm expression had tightened slightly as he spoke, a crease forming on her brow as she processed his words. When he had finished, Elder Verdigris had pressed her hands into the soil, sending a pulse of aether through the mycelial network beneath her garden. The ground responded instantly, the roots murmuring in return, and within moments, three Gardeners arrived. They had landed gracefully, taking care to avoid disturbing the Elder’s rare plants.
He’d recognized one of the Gardeners by her powerful stance—Lira Moss, resplendent in her living wood armor and braided grass skirt, her presence blending effortlessly with the verdant surroundings. Her armor, shaded with ochres and greens, conveyed both strength and harmony. The other two Gardeners were familiar to Rowan by sight, though nameless to him; most Gardeners spent their time in the wild, managing the unchecked growths that flourished with Mount Kisai’s monthly Flowering.
Elder Verdigris’s voice had broken the quiet with a calm authority, though her usual warmth held a note of caution. “Root Greaves has identified a potential fire in the southern sweep,” she had said, her gaze sweeping over the Gardeners with a gravity that made Rowan’s pulse quicken. “The rains have been steady, yes, but we are all aware of the dangers lingering in those woods.”
Her eyes had lingered on Rowan, a slight but unmistakable note of concern in her expression. “Stem Moss,” she had addressed Lira, “you will take command. You three will escort Root Greaves. And bring him back alive. I am entrusting him to your care.”
Rowan had been taken aback; he was just a Root, the lowest rank of their sect, and his only reason for opening his meridians and ascending to Root was to manipulate life aether more efficiently during his projects—he despised waste. He was neither built for fieldwork nor trained for it. He was a cultivator of life, not a warrior. Well, ostensibly, at least, as he’d tried to ignore his murderous creations in his growing indignation.
As he’d straightened under Elder Verdigris’s watchful gaze, he’d caught an awkward look crossing her face. She had hesitated, then spoken in her usual gentle tone, though there had been a hint of encouragement. “Root Greaves, there is much one can learn from the Gardeners, especially when it comes to…well, you know…”
“With…the greatest respect, Elder,” Rowan had stammered, his tone respectful but edged with shocked outrage. “I am no warrior, nor do I wish to be. My talent will work itself out, I am sure. There is no need for me to gain such experiences in the field, surely! I assure you…with the greatest respect, Elder…”
Elder Verdigris’s expression had shifted, her warmth tempered with a firmer edge. She had looked Rowan in the eye, her voice steady yet carrying a subtle rebuke. “Root Greaves, tell me—should a bird curse its wings for want of fins? Your talents are not diminished simply because they differ from others’. It is no dishonor to the Greaves name to excel in ways unique to you.”
He had opened his mouth, ready to protest further, but she had raised a hand, silencing him with gentle finality. “Enough. I have spoken.”
Realization struck him like a splash of cold water; he had been on the verge of arguing with an Elder—an act that would have earned him more than a reprimand from Elder Rockspring or Elder Thistle. He swallowed his words, bowing his head with a mix of frustration and reluctant respect.
Now, Rowan found himself strapped in an emasculating apparatus, fastened to the back of the thankfully male Gardener, who had introduced himself as Stem Thad, which was a ridiculous name in Rowan’s opinion. Perhaps it was the indignity of the situation that made Rowan bristle with irritation toward his bearer—but still, “Thad” was undeniably a ridiculous name.
Rowan strained to catch Lira’s voice just ahead, her words nearly lost in the rush of wind created by the Gardeners’ powerful strides. Their iron-ranked cores propelled them through the forest with startling speed, leaving Rowan squashed against the wooden armor strapped to Thad’s back. Then, without warning, Thad stopped abruptly, and Rowan lurched forward, colliding into the unforgiving armor with a painful thud.
Before he could protest, Thad unlatched the harness, and Rowan was unceremoniously dumped onto the ground. He scrambled out of the contraption, rubbing his bruised backside, his irritation turning to confusion as he noticed his companions. The Gardeners were crouched, tense and alert, their bodies frozen as they stared through a dense stand of trees. Rowan stilled, squinting past their wooden helmets and armor, struggling to see what had captured their attention.
Then he noticed it—a flickering red and orange glow.
Fire.
Lira moved her hands in sharp, precise signals, directing the Gardeners to fan out on either side of the blaze. She shot Rowan a warning look, gesturing for him to stay put. Rowan, eager to avoid further entanglements in Gardener business, obliged without hesitation, settling quietly into the crook of a nearby tree. From his new vantage point, he could finally see the source of the glow.
In the center of the clearing stood a magnificent tree, its grand trunk at least ten feet around. The tree’s branches stretched upward, noble and majestic, reaching as if to drink from the Crown of Avalon itself. Its limbs were draped in ancient, weathered leaves, and even from this distance, Rowan could sense the pure aether flowing from its roots to its crown, infusing every inch of its venerable form. Through his spiritual sight, he saw the aether saturating it, almost spilling over, and in that moment, he knew this tree had seen centuries of life. It was nearly sentient, an ancient creature teetering on the edge of consciousness.
But it was not alone in the clearing.
Kneeling before the burning tree was a man, naked and oblivious to the world around him. His back, hard-muscled and broad, gleamed with sweat, illuminated by the fire that consumed the tree from root to tip. Fire aether billowed out of the ancient trunk in massive waves, shimmering as it escaped into the air. To Rowan’s horror, most of the aether was wasted, lost to the sky, while the man before the blaze sipped at it like a child taking timid sips from an overflowing river.
The sheer waste made Rowan’s skin crawl. How could anyone be so reckless, so untrained? But the scientist in him, despite his disgust, couldn’t help but admire the sharp aether vortex the man had created—a technique crude yet effective, drawing in scattered threads of fire. It was a remarkable display, even if the man was clearly an amateur. Rowan’s eyes narrowed as he observed closer.
He could see the fire aether threading from the flames into the man’s core, winding around blockages in his meridians. Rowan’s heart beat faster as he realized: this man wasn’t just drawing aether. He was absorbing it directly into his core, maneuvering around blocked meridians that should’ve prevented the flow altogether. The sheer recklessness of it bordered on madness; the man was not fully fire-aspected, that much even Rowan with his amateur spiritual sight could see. The man seemed unaware of the danger, heedless of the vast aether well he wasted with each labored breath.
What kind of cultivator could wield such raw power while operating with such amateur control?
More importantly, what kind of fool would dare create open flame within the borders of the Sect of Grasses?
XXX
Ar’Kaen, we are not alone.
He opened his eyes, the intense heat no longer stinging them, though the pillar of fire still blazed. Legion retreated into his soul, a process he did not quite understand yet but was visible---his form dissipated into black and white smoke before dissolving toward Jericho.
His core now held a small pond of aether, far from the vast ocean he’d once possessed but enough to defend himself. Movement caught his eye—a flicker to his left, then to his right. A glare from eyes hidden in the undergrowth.
Legion stood beside him, spectral and alert, its white eyes glinting as it peered into the dark tangle of trees. Jericho stood, unbothered by his nakedness, and cracked his knuckles. In the brutal world of the Underroots, survival meant being ever-ready for violence, and Jericho had been forged in that crucible, honed to a brittle edge after so many years in darkness.
But, he still knew better than to engage with an unknown force who held unknown strength with unknown motives. He raised his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture, and spoke.
Still, instinct warned him against rushing into battle. He raised his hands in a gesture of peace, his voice steady and low. “Peace, frie—”
A blur of movement, ruddy brown and swift, interrupted him. The next thing he knew, a searing weight slammed him to the ground. His throat constricted under a powerful grip, fingers encased in rough, segmented wooden armor that bit into his neck. The woman astride him radiated fury, her eyes, brilliant and green as the freshest moss, seething with a rage that struck Jericho as oddly personal. He had never seen her before, yet she attacked as if he had wronged her deeply.
Confusion ignited into anger, hot and sharp. He had fought and clawed his way to the surface, only to be met with the violence he’d left behind in the Underroots. This surface dweller, surrounded by life and bounty unimaginable to the starving masses below the Seal, had chosen to greet him with brutality. If that was Avalon’s way, then Jericho was well-acquainted with it.
Meeting her gaze, his eyes blazed as he summoned fire aether through his hands, fingers tightening around her armored wrists. The skin on his palms burned as the flames licked out, charring the exterior of her armor. She leapt back with a hiss, a flash of pain breaking through her rage as she landed in a defensive crouch. Her eyes widened with what might have been a flicker of pain before an abrupt crash sounded behind Jericho. A rush of heated mist billowed into the clearing, the blaze behind him quenched by an unseen force.
Jericho scrambled up, gasping through the constriction of his bruised throat. His eyes darted around, searching desperately for anything to defend himself. His fingers brushed against a jagged stone, and he dragged its edge across his palm, blood welling up. He threaded the fire aether through the wound, willing it to form the blade he needed, but without life aether, the flame sputtered uselessly.
Cursing under his breath, he spun and bolted, knowing the fight was beyond him. He had faced worse odds, but he also had responsibilities greater than his pride. His mission could not end here. He sprinted into the shifting mist, each step a gamble as the world blurred around him.
A tremor beneath his feet, sudden and fierce, was the only warning before vines erupted from the earth, writhing like serpents. They lashed around his legs, halting his flight. Thorns sprouted, slicing into his skin as they coiled up his arms, forcing his hands apart. He screamed, raw and furious, and with a desperate burst of will, fire blazed over his skin, searing the vines to ash in a blaze of crimson and gold.
The pain was blinding, thorns raking his skin even as they burned away, but he staggered to his feet, roaring in defiance. He surged forward, his body raw with wounds, each heartbeat pounding in time with the pursuit he knew followed. He crashed through the last veil of steam, only to nearly collide with a slender man in green and tan robes, who yelped and fell back, wide-eyed. Jericho tumbled past him, rolling to his feet as the man’s shout echoed behind him.
From over his right shoulder, a small object was hurled and skittered across the ground before rolling to a stop in his path. Instinct screamed, and Jericho veered to the side, muscles taut with the need to keep moving. The object, now settled, erupted in a frenzy of shoots that shot downward, anchoring themselves into the earth with a series of sharp, cracking sounds. In an instant, the soil began to dry and split, the moisture leached away so rapidly that it left a desolate, parched expanse in its wake.
Jericho sprinted past, adrenaline surging through him as he risked a glance over his shoulder. The plant had swelled grotesquely, bulging as if taking a breath, its body expanding like the throat of a monstrous toad. Vines and roots intertwined with a frenzied will, forming crude limbs that flexed and twitched as if testing their newfound freedom.
Within seconds, arms thick with tangled wood and bristling thorns unfurled, followed by legs that dug deep into the ruined ground. A malformed head emerged last, eyes nothing but dark hollows, and a jagged mouth opened wide to let out a scream—shrill and full of bloodthirsty rage. The sound cut through the clearing, making the ground tremble beneath Jericho's feet as the creature began its pursuit, charging forward with a speed that defied its bulk and crude form.
Jericho couldn't help but feel a bitter pang of irony. Moments before, he had been marveling at the beauty of the surface world, the serene majesty of its living wonders. Now, those wonders turned feral and furious, intent on ending him. The surface was far from soft; even the plants here seemed to be bloodthirsty, apparently.
Footsteps thundered behind him, closer and closer. He set his hands alight, fire surging through his veins, and threw himself into a desperate leap, rolling to meet the oncoming threat. But, all he saw was a wall of gnarled wood before a limb, in both senses of the word, crashed down, and darkness swallowed him whole.
XXX
Rowan had watched, slack-jawed with amazement, as his little onion bulb swelled monstrously, a simple plant-turned-feral beast. That amazement quickly turned to horror as the creature, now a hulking brute of intertwined roots and vines, sprinted off into the woods, likely drawn into a blood-fueled rage after dispatching the naked despoiler. The man had stood no chance against it; the animate was ferocity incarnate, single-minded and relentless.
Thankfully, Rowan reminded himself, he’d only infused it with enough life aether for a few minutes. As he checked his map, he confirmed there were no settlements in the direction the animate had charged. At worst, it might blindly chase after a few forest creatures before collapsing, a spent shell of a thing. And perhaps, if the fates allowed, once its aether had decayed, it might even take root and sprout into something useful. Rowan couldn’t help but feel a pang of pride at the thought.
He tucked the map away and drew out a small, ebony box, his hands shaking slightly. With a rattling breath, he opened it and lifted a pair of black-and-gold goggles, slipping them over his eyes. As he turned toward the ruined tree, a glimmer of hope sparked in his chest. Through the goggles, his spiritual sight sharpened, piercing the blackened wood to glimpse what lay beneath the charred surface. There—amidst the destruction, a faint, pulsing vein of living heartwood remained, a core untouched by the blaze.
Tears pricked at Rowan’s eyes, blurring his vision briefly before he settled himself with a deep breath. Giddy with relief, he crouched down, taking a small coring tool from his pack. Setting it carefully against the charred bark, he began to bore into the trunk, creating a narrow path through the dead outer layers to reach the living wood. When he reached the heartwood, he closed his eyes, drawing a thread of life aether from his core.
The tree would live. He was certain of it. But its recovery would take time—years, if not decades, of care. Drawing a bloodwood scraping knife from his pack, he began to carefully strip away the outer layer of burnt wood, humming a merry tune as he worked, the fire’s lingering heat dissipating with each scrape.
A voice interrupted his quiet reverie. “The prisoner is secured. How…how is the ancient one?” It was Lira, who had approached quietly, her tone tentative as she peered over his shoulder.
Rowan looked up, his eyes bright with pride. “It will live. This tree is strong, older than I first thought. It’ll recover in time—perhaps in a few decades, with care.”
Lira gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “I dared not hope.” Her helm creaked as it retracted into her pauldrons, panels sliding smoothly into the organic recesses.. Sweat matted her chestnut hair to her forehead, and her face was flushed from the heat and exertion. She cast a dark glance toward the bound figure lying in the clearing, her emerald eyes flashing with a barely contained anger.
“Who is he?” Rowan asked, glancing at the man again, the sight unsettling him. The stranger was like no one he’d ever seen: tall, powerful, his olive-toned skin wrapped in the remnants of vine binds, his hair dark gray rather than black. But it was his eyes that had struck Rowan, making him cry out when they first locked gazes. Red irises, as if kindled from the very fires of the Roots themselves, and filled with a fury that had rooted him to the spot.
“I don’t know,” Lira replied, her voice taut with lingering frustration. “But he’ll answer to Elder Verdigris when he wakes. Thad gave him a sedative polyp—enough to keep him down. Even if he stirs, he’s only wood-ranked, with closed meridians. He’s no threat.”
Rowan detected a hint of unease in her stance, though she kept her words confident. She kept glancing back at the man, her hand massaging her wrist where he’d left wounds. His presence seemed to cast a dark pall over the clearing.
“Lira…” he began, his voice low. “Your sight goes further than mine. You saw his core. He’s fire-aspected, isn’t he? But there’s more there, other elements too. Something in his blood…it unsettles me.”
“Calm yourself, Rowan,” she replied, though there was a faint tremor in her voice. “Elder Verdigris will judge him. This will be over soon enough.” She glanced at the ancient tree, the lines of tension in her face softening slightly. “You stay here and tend to the tree; I’ll detach a troop of arborists to relieve you.”
Rowan nodded, grateful for the time he could spend with the tree, but as he turned back to his work, he felt the unease linger. This man was more than an intruder—he was a storm in human form, a volatile power drawn to the sect with motives and abilities yet unknown.