The fortress breathed.
Noah felt it before he fully saw it—a slow, uneven pulse that traveled through the ground and into his boots, like a giant heart struggling to keep time. Each thrum made the soil shudder. Each pause felt too long.
They crouched at the edge of the dead clearing, the structure looming above them. What had once been a forest here was now a wall of blackened roots fused with hardened sludge, rising in jagged spires. Thorned branches twisted outward like ribs. Thick resin dripped from the tips and struck the ground with wet, sticky sounds, hardening into dark lumps that glimmered faintly red from within.
The air smelled wrong. Burnt sap. Melted plastic. Sour metal.
Sprint swallowed. "This place shouldn't exist."
Fern didn't answer. Her hand hovered near her injured arm, fingers trembling. Noah could feel how weak the land was here—how even standing still felt like trespassing on something sick and angry.
They moved along the outer wall, keeping to the shadows cast by the thorn spires. Every few seconds, a hiss of steam burst from vents in the roots, releasing hot air that smelled of chemicals and decay.
Then Noah saw it.
Channels carved into the fortress wall—veins, really—carrying thick, oily liquid downward. The substance bubbled slowly, glowing orange-red in the darkness. It looked like molten tar, but thinner, alive in a way that made Noah's skin crawl.
"This is how it feeds," Fern whispered. "Everything flows inward."
They followed one of the channels to where the wall sagged and split. A narrow opening gaped there, its edges slick and warm.
The drainage tunnel.
They slipped inside.
The passage was cramped, the walls pulsing faintly as if something beneath them shifted and crawled. Every step made their boots stick for a moment before pulling free with a soft, wet sound. The hum grew louder the deeper they went, vibrating through Noah's chest until it felt like the air itself was buzzing.
Then the tunnel opened.
Noah froze.
Below them stretched a vast cavern, lit by the glow of molten resin. The floor was layered with blackened sludge, hardened in places, liquid in others. Root-like structures rose from the ground and curved overhead, carrying glowing streams of melted waste like pipes.
Blight Kin moved through the space in rigid lines.
They carried human trash.
Plastic bottle caps warped by heat. Torn wrappers. Bent wires. Shards of colored plastic and foil. Everything Noah recognized from his own world—things tossed away without thought—was being dumped into enormous vats where the debris melted into glowing black resin.
Mechanical-looking roots dipped into the vats, stirring the mixture slowly. Smoke rose in thick coils, carrying sparks that drifted upward like dying fireflies.
Noah's stomach twisted.
"He's turning it into something," Noah said quietly. "On purpose."
Fern's face was pale. "This is a factory."
Sprint crouched lower, motioning for silence. Two Blight Kin overseers stood near a ledge below them, their bodies more heavily fused with metal and resin. Their voices clicked and rasped, but some words were clear.
"…the creek…""…at dawn…""…release the flow…"
Sprint's jaw tightened. "They're going to pour this into the water. All of it."
Fern closed her eyes briefly. "If the creek is poisoned, it will spread everywhere. The bees. The roots. RootVale."
Noah stared at the vats, the molten surface churning slowly. He thought of the garden above. His grandmother's tomatoes. The fish in the creek. The toad. All of it could vanish.
A sudden sound made him stiffen.
A scream.
It echoed across the cavern, sharp and desperate.
The Blight Kin dragged a small figure into the open—a Gardenling, bound at the wrists with black resin. Their clothes were torn. Their face was streaked with ash and tears.
"Please," the Gardenling cried, voice breaking. "Please—I'll work. I'll serve. Just don't—"
A Blight overseer shoved them forward toward a smaller vat, glowing brighter than the rest.
Noah took a step forward.
Sprint's hand shot out, gripping his arm. Hard.
"Don't," Sprint hissed.
The Gardenling struggled as corrupted resin was poured over their shoulders. It sizzled on contact. They screamed, thrashing, as black veins spread across their skin. Metal shards were pressed into their arms. Their cries turned hoarse, then cut off abruptly.
When the figure rose again, it stood stiff and silent. Its eyes glowed orange.
It turned and walked back into line.
Noah's chest burned. His hands shook around the sword hilt. Every instinct screamed at him to move—to do something.
Fern's voice was barely a breath. "If we intervene, we die. And then this continues."
Noah stayed where he was.
It felt worse than running.
They retreated slowly into a side tunnel, the screams echoing in Noah's ears long after they were gone. The passage narrowed and twisted, shielding them from the glow of the vats. The heat here was suffocating. Resin dripped from the ceiling in slow, glowing drops.
They stopped where the tunnel bent sharply.
Noah leaned against the wall, breathing hard. "We can't fight this. Not all of it."
Sprint nodded grimly. "There are too many."
Silence stretched between them. Then Noah looked back toward where the vats glowed faintly through cracks in the wall.
"But we can break it."
They both turned to him.
"That pit," Noah continued. "If it ruptures, the corruption floods the fortress instead of the creek. It buys time. Creates chaos."
Sprint grimaced. "That stuff eats through stone. You want it loose?"
"It's already loose," Noah said quietly. "Just aimed."
Fern thought for a long moment, eyes distant. Then she nodded once. "I can make something that will rupture the pit. But not with what's here."
She explained quickly—volatile spores, reactive sap, a catalyst that still required living soil. Materials found only beyond the corrupted border.
Which meant leaving.
And coming back.
They all understood the risk without saying it.
Noah looked once more toward the processing floor, toward the place where a Gardenling had been lost forever.
"We come back," he said. "And we end this."
Sprint adjusted his bow. "Fast. Quiet."
Noah placed his hand briefly against the Sword of Roots. The blade pulsed faintly, silver light pushing back the red glow in the tunnel.
They slipped away through the hidden passage, the fortress humming behind them—alive, polluted, waiting.
Behind them, the fortress fed on stolen life. Ahead lay the night, and the dangerous hope of fire.