The air above Ashroot tasted different after the mimic fell.
Not sweeter — never sweeter — but sharper. Like old fruit left too long on the branch, its skin split, its seeds restless. The orchard within me stirred restlessly, branches creaking in winds I couldn't feel.
I hadn't slept.Again.
Instead, I sat at the edge of the village, where the cliffs broke into mist and memory. Beneath me, the land sloped downward into endless grey. Behind me, Ashroot murmured in its uneasy dreams. And inside me, the Thornfruit pact pulsed slow and heavy, a second heartbeat that never quite synced with mine.
Mira found me there before dawn, boots crunching against the frostbitten roots.
"You should rest," she said.
I shook my head. "I can't. Not yet."
She hesitated, then dropped down beside me, pulling her coat tighter around her thin frame. Her spirits hovered close, faint outlines against the mist. For once, they didn't speak. Even the orchard in her veins seemed to know this wasn't a time for words.
After a while, she said, "You did it."
I almost laughed.
"No. I survived it," I murmured. "It's not the same."
She didn't argue.
Because she knew.Here, survival wasn't victory. It was just permission to face the next horror a little longer.
We sat there until the sun cracked the horizon — a dull smear of light barely strong enough to push back the mist.
And that's when the first real sign came.
A tremor. Faint. Felt more than heard.
From deep beneath Ashroot.
The village shifted, waking not with noise, but with awareness — like a wounded body sensing a new infection.
Mira stood first. "It's time."
I followed.
As we made our way back toward the Archive, Saro was already there, pacing like a caged wolf. His coat was soaked again, but he didn't seem to notice.
"They're coming," he said simply.
"Watchers?" Mira asked.
Saro shook his head once. "No. Worse."
The ground trembled again. A little stronger.
In the distance, the blackthorn trees along the ridge shivered — but not from wind. Something inside the earth was waking.
Something old.
"Fruitborne?" I asked, throat dry.
"No," Saro said. He looked at me, and there was something like pity in his mismatched eyes. "Rotborne."
Mira cursed under her breath.
Rotborne.
The forbidden class Tume had warned us about.The spirits that didn't bond — they devoured.The ones the Council had hunted to extinction.
Or so we thought.
"They've been seeding them," Saro said bitterly. "Waiting. Cultivating them in the deep gardens. For moments like this."
"To smoke us out," Mira said.
"To harvest us," Saro corrected.
The villagers gathered quickly, instinct rather than command. Broken spirits flickered weakly in the grey light, sigils half-hidden behind rags and scars. No war banners. No bravado.
Just survival.
Old Gelroot, the bark-skinned gatekeeper, raised her thorn-axe over her head. "Ashroot will not kneel!" she bellowed, voice cracking the mist.
The villagers roared in answer — a sound ragged and fierce, the kind only made by people who had already lost everything once before.
I closed my eyes.
Inside, the orchard pulsed — faster now, branches weaving tighter, leaves trembling.
The Thornfruit mark under my ribs ached.The pact whispered: Choose.
I did.
I stepped forward.
"I'll face them," I said.
Mira caught my arm. "You'll die."
"Maybe," I said. "But if I don't stand first, they'll rip through Ashroot like rot through orchard roots."
Saro's gaze sharpened. "You have a plan?"
I smiled grimly. "No. I have flavor."
Without waiting for permission, I summoned my inner orchard.
The world shifted.
The real Ashroot blurred into something half-remembered: twisted trees, bleeding fruits, screaming roots. My tree rose in the center of it all, black-veined and burning gold at the seams.
At its base, new skills blinked into being.
[New Active: Flavor Rend – Rank E]Tear through a spirit's outer shell, exposing its core flavor for absorption. Risk of backlash: Moderate.
[New Passive: Thornroot Defiance]When facing corrupted or Rotborne spirits, resistance increases by 20%.
I exhaled.
The orchard bent toward me — not in worship, but in recognition.
I wasn't just a harvester anymore.
I was a scythe.
The first Rotborne emerged at dusk.
It wasn't human.
At least, not anymore.
A twisted body made of fermented flesh and shattered spirits, stitched together by black roots. It dragged itself forward, leaking a sour scent so strong the villagers gagged even at a distance.
And behind it… more.
Dozens.
Maybe hundreds.
I stepped into the mud of Ashroot's broken square.
Raised my sigil.
And tasted the storm.