Dawn broke reluctantly.
The sky was a slate of shifting clouds, streaked in pale sickly green. Birds were silent, and the usual rustle of waking forest life was absent—replaced by an unnatural hush, like the world was holding its breath.
Nyxia tightened the straps of her satchel and pulled her hood low. Loque moved beside her like a phantom, his glowing fur dimming as they descended from the sanctuary's marble steps into the thickening underbrush that framed the path toward the Rotfang Thickets.
Perseus walked a few paces behind, staff in hand, the head of it glowing faintly with sigils of protection. "I haven't seen skies like this since the Blightwinds of Ahn'kahet," he muttered. "Rot's in the air. Can you smell it?"
"I can feel it," Nyxia replied, eyes scanning every shadow. "It's crawling under my skin."
They walked for hours, the path winding through gnarled trees with twisted trunks, their bark oozing sap the color of old blood. Leaves sagged like wilted skin, and fungal growths pulsed with a faint, rhythmic throb, as though the forest itself was breathing.
Just as Perseus muttered a complaint about the smell of "sweet corpse-mushrooms," a loud rustling came from the thicket ahead.
Nyxia's bow was out instantly, arrow drawn. Loque vanished into the brush.
But instead of an ambush or monstrosity, a tall, wiry man stumbled out, holding a massive plant with spiny blue bulbs.
"Oh!" he gasped, clutching the herb like a newborn. "You're not a corpse-flower!"
Nyxia narrowed her eyes. "Depends who's asking."
Perseus stepped forward, half-laughing. "Nyx, meet Gleam. He's a botanist, forest exile, fungus hoarder—"
"—And a proud fungal symbiote host, thank you," Gleam cut in, brushing leaf mold from his beard. "These woods are sick, and no one listens to a man who talks to moss. But I told the Circle this would happen, didn't I? Spore veins bursting, fungal parasites waking from the old groves—and you people still send me letters about cabbage rot?"
He looked at Nyxia, finally registering her spectral companion. "Oh Light preserve me—is that THE Loque'nahak?!" He reached toward him with glee.
Loque bared his fangs. Gleam stopped immediately.
"Right. Admire from afar. Got it."
Nyxia lowered her bow slowly. "You're the guide?"
Gleam puffed his chest. "I am the guide. The only one still alive who's mapped the Rotfang root tunnels and lived to tell the tale. Plus, I know where the vault is. But we're not taking the main path."
"Of course we're not," Perseus muttered.
"No," Gleam said cheerfully. "We're taking the wet one."
He pointed off the trail to a sloping glade filled with steaming bog water, scattered bones, and vines that hissed faintly in the breeze.
Nyxia gave Perseus a deadpan stare. "You owe me after this."
"Oh, I know."
Loque growled low, his tail flicking as he sniffed the air.
Nyxia pulled her cloak tighter. "Let's move."
And they did—off the path, into the wet, winding veins of a forest long-forgotten, where the trees leaned too far and the shadows whispered things they weren't supposed to.
The bog sucked at their boots with every step.
Foul, warm water oozed up around Nyxia's calves as the glade funneled into a hollow of sunken ruins and twisted roots. Creeping vines slithered along ancient stone arches—some twitched when touched. Rot clung to the air like a film—thick, cloying, sharp with the metallic tang of old blood.
"Something's wrong," Nyxia murmured, her voice low.
Gleam had stopped. His eyes were wide behind fungal-crusted goggles.
"This wasn't here before," he whispered.
Before them stood a half-submerged structure of stone, ribbed like a spine and flanked by carved trees whose faces wept black ichor. Around the clearing, petals of flesh-colored fungus bloomed—obscene, wrong. Their shapes were too human to be coincidence.
Loque stiffened beside her, spectral fur bristling.
Then came the song.
Soft. Childlike. A whisper threaded through the trees without a mouth to carry it:
"We grow where they fed…We feed where they bled…"
Gleam backed away."Oh no. No, no, no—this is where they died."
The petals snapped open like jaws.
Dryads. Or what once were.
Their bark-flesh had torn into pulpy mouths. Limbs, once graceful, twisted into clawed branches. Antlers infested with maggots and vines. Their eyes were gone—replaced by sockets that wept spores and rot.
They moved as one.
The first lunged.
Perseus roared—not in fear, but fury. His shield lifted, his armor blazing with holy light as he surged forward.
The creature slammed into him with a force that cracked the earth. Perseus held, feet planted, and shoved it back with a crunch of bark and bone.
Nyxia rolled to the side—already firing.
Her arrow split a creature's face in half.
It didn't fall.
It screeched, charging through the wound, ichor spilling like molten tar.
Loque exploded into motion—tackling two at once. His claws shredded rot and vine. Spectral fangs tore through torsos, spraying black blood. Guts spilled like pulped roots, writhing and hissing.
One dryad opened its belly like a cloak.
Inside—a mass of wriggling infant mouths fused into its chest.
It lunged at Nyxia.
Perseus was there—shield flashing gold, slamming the abomination aside. He pinned it, driving his blade down through its skull with a wet CRACK.
But they just kept coming.
"They don't die like normal!" Nyxia shouted. "Go for the spine!"
More erupted from the bog behind them.
Loque was soaked in gore. His fur dark, matted, sticky.
He pounced on a tall one, dragging it down into the water—ripping it apart until its pieces floated like raw meat.
Perseus had taken three hits to the chest. His armor cracked, seeping rot.
He didn't stop.
Light poured from his eyes. Radiant fire blazed from his shield as he slammed it into the ground.
A burst of Light exploded outward—searing the creatures, burning vines to ash.
"Nyxia—move!"
She turned.
The largest dryad stepped from the temple's maw.
Feminine. Towering. Monstrous.
Her body was built from fused corpses—dryads, druids, even humans. Her eyes were sewn shut with golden thread. Her hair a tangle of organs and black flowers.
She opened her arms.
The trees screamed.
Roots erupted from the ground—impaling Gleam.
He didn't even scream.
His body tore in two like wet cloth. Intestines spilled into the bog water.
"NO!"
Perseus charged.
"Perseus, wait!" Nyxia screamed.
She fired—three arrows. Thump. Thump. Thump.
They vanished into the creature's flesh—like rain swallowed by sand.
Perseus struck.
Light burst. Bark cracked.
The creature screamed with a dozen mouths—then swung a limb the size of a tree.
It hit.
He flew backward—crashing through a stone arch and vanishing beneath the water.
"PERSEUS!"
The beast turned to her.
Loque growled, but his form flickered. He was fading—injured, maybe dying.
Nyxia drew her bone knife. Her heart thundered.
She was going to die here.
But she wouldn't die alone.
The beast lunged.
And the world went black.