"We did not bring you merely for stories."
"I guessed." He set aside the fruit.
She rose and gestured toward the center of the floor, where a circular gap gaped between roots. A faint chill crept from it. He followed, Rodion gliding close.
The fissure was no wider than a man's shoulders, yet depth swallowed light. Black tendrils pulsed along its walls—roots twisted into rope, slick with oily sheen. Each pulse sent dim crimson ripples through the cracks. The air smelled of rot under incense, old blood beneath perfume.
Mikhailis knelt, bracing a hand on slick bark. He peered in. The tendrils didn't writhe like vines in wind; they quivered in slow waves, as if something gulped life from them in lazy sips.
A bead of sweat slid along his temple despite the cool air.
Rodion's optics flashed, scanning.
