They slipped out of the fortress the same way they had come in—quietly, carefully, like ghosts afraid of being remembered.
The drainage tunnel narrowed as they moved, the walls no longer pulsing with red veins but fading to dull browns and greys. With every step away from the Heart Pit, the air changed. The heat thinned. The hum softened. The smell of burnt plastic and rot gave way, slowly, to damp soil and old leaves.
Fern was the first to notice it.
She stopped walking and closed her eyes, drawing a slow breath. Her shoulders loosened just a little. "Nature still lives here," she said. "Barely—but enough."
Noah felt it too. The Sword of Roots at his side dimmed, its frantic pulse settling into a steadier glow. It no longer felt like it was screaming.
Sprint leaned against the tunnel wall, wiping sweat from his brow. "Good. Because if we stayed in there any longer, I was going to start glowing orange too."
They didn't linger. The fortress loomed behind them, breathing, waiting.
Sprint led them along the borderlands—places where corruption had tried and failed to take hold. The ground here was scarred but not dead. Patches of moss clung stubbornly to rocks. Small insects darted away at their approach. Leaves trembled, sensing movement.
Fern moved with purpose now, pointing and naming quietly.
"Those spores," she said, gesturing to a cluster of pale bulbs growing beneath a fallen log. "Highly volatile when dried. Handle gently."
Noah crouched and used the Sword of Roots to slice the stalk cleanly, careful not to crush it. The blade hummed approvingly as the plant sealed itself behind the cut.
Sprint kept watch, bow ready, eyes scanning the dark. Once, a shadow moved too close, and he froze—only to relax when a beetle scuttled past.
Fern scraped amber sap from a wounded tree, the resin sticky and warm in her palms. "This burns hot," she said. "Fast. Too fast, if we don't stabilize it."
She mixed the ingredients with practiced care, murmuring calculations under her breath. Noah watched her hands—steady, precise, despite the danger.
"How sure are you?" he asked quietly.
Fern didn't look up. "Sure enough."
They worked quickly. No one spoke more than necessary. Time felt thin here, stretched tight between heartbeats.
They regrouped beneath an overhang of roots that shielded them from the fortress's glow. Fern laid out the components on a flat stone, her fingers moving deftly.
She divided the mixture into small resin-sealed pouches, each no bigger than Noah's fist. Short fuses—made from treated vine fiber—were pressed into place.
"These won't explode like thunder," she explained. "They'll rupture. Pressure and heat. Enough to crack the Heart Pit's supports and let the corruption spill inward."
Sprint grimaced. "And if we mess up?"
Fern met his eyes. "Then we won't feel it."
Noah nodded once. "Then we won't mess up."
When the last pouch was sealed, Fern leaned back, exhaling shakily. For a moment, she looked very young.
Sprint offered a crooked smile. "You always did make things interesting."
She snorted softly. "You're still here, aren't you?"
They didn't return through the drainage tunnel.
Instead, Sprint led them to a narrow passage hidden behind a curtain of dead vines—a route once used to move prisoners and supplies. The air inside was dry, the walls ribbed with bone-like roots that scraped at their shoulders as they passed.
The deeper they went, the stronger the smell became. Not smoke this time, but fear—stale and metallic.
The tunnel opened into a chamber lit by dim orange glow.
Cages lined the walls.
Inside the cages were Gardenlings—around a dozen of them.
Some sat slumped against the bars, staring at nothing. Others clung to one another in silence, eyes dull and hollow. Their clothes were torn, bodies streaked with grime and hardened resin. The air around them felt heavy, like despair had weight.
Fern stepped forward slowly, careful not to startle them.
"RootVale still stands," she said, her voice low but steady. "The King lives."
For a moment, no one reacted.
Then a murmur rippled through the cages—soft, disbelieving breaths. A few Gardenlings lifted their heads. One laughed weakly, the sound breaking into a sob halfway through.
Sprint moved beside Fern. "We're getting you out. But we don't have long."
Noah didn't wait for permission.
He raised the Sword of Roots and brought it down against the nearest bar.
The blade cut through hardened resin and wire as if they were bark. The sound rang sharp and final in the chamber. One by one, the cage doors fell away.
The Gardenlings hesitated—just a heartbeat—then surged forward. Some laughed. Others cried openly. Fern moved among them, steadying shaking shoulders, murmuring calm words as the noise threatened to rise too high.
"We're creating a distraction," she said quietly but firmly. "When the blast comes, you run. Draw the Blight Kin away from the inner chambers. Don't look back."
They nodded. Fear still lingered—but now it shared space with something stronger.
Resolve.
As the last cage emptied, Noah's gaze caught on the far corner of the chamber.
Someone was still there.
The figure sat curled against the wall, wrapped in rags, unmoving. Smaller than the others. No pointed ears. No Gardenling markings.
Noah's breath stalled.
He moved closer, each step slow, as if afraid the shape might vanish if he hurried.
The figure lifted its head.
The face was gaunt. Older than Noah remembered. The eyes sunken—but unmistakable.
The man blinked, squinting through the dim light.
"Noah?" His voice cracked on the name. "That's… that's not possible."
Noah dropped to his knees.
"Grandpa."
For a moment, Oak just stared. Then his hands began to shake. He reached out, stopped himself, as if afraid Noah might be a trick—another cruelty of the fortress.
"You shouldn't be here," Oak whispered, distress flooding his face. "You shouldn't have come."
"I had to," Noah said. His voice wavered despite himself. "Grandma's worried. She's been alone. I—"
Oak squeezed his eyes shut. Pain twisted his features. "I never meant to leave her. I was following the pollution trail. I thought I could fix it before it spread. I was wrong." His voice dropped. "Malga was waiting."
Fern approached quietly, kneeling beside them. Sprint stood a few paces back, keeping watch, giving them space.
Oak's gaze drifted to the Sword of Roots at Noah's side. Recognition flickered—followed by fear.
"The garden trusts you," Oak said softly.
Noah shook his head. "I didn't wait for permission."
Oak studied him for a long moment. Then, despite everything, a faint, broken smile touched his lips.
"That sounds like you."
There wasn't time for more.
Noah explained the plan quickly—the explosion, the chaos, the chance to reach Malga and stop the release.
The freed Gardenlings listened, grim but determined. "We'll help," one said. "We owe them."
Noah turned back to Oak, taking in his frail frame. "You need to leave. Now."
Oak opened his mouth to protest.
"No," Noah said firmly. "You go back to RootVale. Warn the King. Bring help if you can."
Oak searched his face, pride and fear warring in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. "You've grown," he said quietly. "Too fast."
Two Gardenlings stepped forward to support him.
As they led Oak toward the tunnel, he looked back once more. "Finish it," he said. "For all of us."
Noah watched until they vanished into the shadows.
Then he turned toward the heart of the fortress.
"Let's light the fuse."
The fortress hummed around them, unaware that its borrowed power was about to turn against it.
And for the first time since stepping into Malga's domain, Noah felt something dangerous stir beneath the fear.
Hope.