The dagger's scream faded into a venomous hiss as the acorn's light washed over it. Seraphina's fingers tightened around the sword hilt, its dormant eye twitching beneath her grip. The blackened veins in the chamber walls pulsed in time with the distant horn's call, each throb sending fresh cracks spiderwebbing through the heartwood.
Lysandra stepped forward, her movements dreamlike. Silver light spilt from the branching scar on her chest, illuminating Anara's peaceful face in eerie relief. "It wasn't just poison," she murmured. "It was her."
Seraphina's breath caught. The realisation struck like a physical blow—the taint in the roots, the hunger in the crown, the hollow-eyed corruption festering in their bloodline. All of it traced back to this moment. This blade. This betrayal.
The horn's call sounded again, closer now. The roots trembled, their silver blossoms dimming as the black veins swelled with renewed vigor. Somewhere above, stone shattered under tremendous force.
The corpse-king was breaking through.
Seraphina lunged for the dagger, but Lysandra caught her wrist. "No," she breathed. "Not with hands alone."
The scar on her chest flared brighter, its light coalescing into a single radiant thread that stretched toward the embedded blade. Where it touched the poisoned metal, the dagger shrieked, its surface bubbling like molten ore.
From the walls, whispers rose—not the crown's insidious murmurs, but the voices of the roots themselves, ancient and grieving.
"The first cut."
"The first lie."
"The hunger born from trust broken."
The dagger trembled in its wooden sheath, its edges blackening further as Lysandra's light poured into the wound. Seraphina watched in awe as her sister's unseeing eyes filled with silver tears—tears that traced the same branching patterns as her scar before falling to the chamber floor.
Where they struck the roots, new growth erupted—tiny shoots of vibrant green pushing through the corruption like blades through snow.
The horn's call became a roar. The chamber shook. And with a final, earsplitting crack, the ceiling split open—
Revealing the corpse-king descending on a tide of writhing shadows, his hollow eyes fixed on the dagger.
On his mistake.
The corpse-king descended in a maelstrom of splintered wood and swirling shadows, his tattered royal robes billowing like the wings of some great carrion bird. The hollow pits of his eyes fixed not on Seraphina or Lysandra, but on the dagger still embedded in Anara's chest—its hilt trembling as though trying to wrench itself free from the heartwood's grip.
Lysandra's silver tears fell faster now, each drop striking the roots with a sound like struck crystal. Where they landed, the blackened veins recoiled, their corruption retreating before the radiant growth that sprang up in its wake. Tiny green leaves unfurled, their surfaces glistening with moisture that hadn't existed moments before.
The corpse-king's feet touched the chamber floor with unnatural lightness. Up close, Seraphina could see the truth of what he'd become—not just a vessel for darkness, but a living wound in the world. His skin, where it wasn't marbled with those pulsing black veins, was translucent, stretched too thin over bones that seemed to shift and reform beneath the surface. When he spoke, his voice was layered with whispers not his own.
"You don't understand what you're doing."
Seraphina raised the silver sword, its pommel's eye flickering weakly. "I understand enough."
A dry chuckle rattled from the corpse-king's throat as he took a step forward. The roots beneath his feet blackened and curled, their silver blossoms withering to dust. "Do you? Then tell me, daughter of kings—why did your ancestor plunge that dagger into his sister's heart?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Lysandra's breath hitched. The thread of light connecting her to the dagger wavered.
The corpse-king seized the moment of hesitation. He moved faster than something so decayed should—one skeletal hand lashing out to wrap around Lysandra's throat. Silver light erupted where his fingers made contact, the branching scar on her chest flaring bright enough to cast sharp shadows across the chamber walls.
"Because she asked him to," the corpse-king whispered.
The vision struck like a lightning bolt—
Anara kneeling before her brother, the untainted circlet in her hands. Not a gift, but a burden. Not an honour, but a curse.
"You have to," she pleaded, pressing the silver band into his palms. "The roots are waking. The hunger is growing. If I become what it wants—"
Her brother's face twisted in anguish as he raised the poisoned dagger.
"I won't let it take you."
The blade is flashing downward.
The first scream.
The first lie.
Seraphina staggered as the vision released her. The corpse-king's grip on Lysandra tightened, his fingers sinking deeper into the radiant light pouring from her scar.
"You see?" he murmured. "The hunger was always here. The roots were always waiting. She just..." His free hand gestured to Anara's peaceful face. "...gave them a face to wear."
Lysandra gasped, her feet leaving the ground as the corpse-king lifted her effortlessly. The light from her scar was dimming now, being drawn into the corpse-king's translucent flesh, feeding the darkness beneath.
"Such pretty lies," he crooned. "Such noble sacrifices. But in the end, we all feed the roots."
Seraphina's sword flared to life—not with silver fire, but with something darker, something deeper. The eye in its pommel opened fully for the first time, its pupil a yawning abyss that reflected no light.
The corpse-king stilled. "Where did you get that?"
Seraphina didn't answer. She didn't know. But the sword remembered.
And so did the roots.
The chamber erupted in motion as the living wood finally chose its side. Great roots surged upward, their silver blossoms shedding petals like knives. They struck the corpse-king from all sides, piercing his translucent flesh with surgical precision.
He screamed—a sound that was less voice and more the splintering of old bones—and dropped Lysandra.
Seraphina caught her sister as she fell, the sword's dark flame licking hungrily at the air between them and the writhing corpse-king.
Lysandra's breath came in ragged gasps. "The dagger," she managed. "It's the key. It's always been the key."
The corpse-king tore free of the roots with a sound like ripping parchment. His form was unraveling now, shadows pouring from the wounds the blossoms had left. But his hollow eyes remained fixed on the dagger.
"No," he rasped. "You don't understand—"
Seraphina understood.
She lunged.
The sword's dark flame met the poisoned dagger in a shower of sparks.
And the heartwood chamber screamed.