Rayz drifted through the markets of Port Salim with the unhurried gait of a man who had nowhere particular to be. He had been staying in the nearby town of Rimmington for several days, using its quiet streets and slow rhythms as a place to rest between travels. But rest never held him for long. By morning he had found himself drawn back to the port, where the sea winds carried the smell of salt and tar and the noise of life never truly faded.

Port Salim was alive in a way Rimmington never tried to be. Sailors shouted as they hauled crates from the docks. Merchants argued with customers over spices, dried fish, and trinkets from distant shores. Children darted between stalls, weaving through the crowd with the reckless joy only youth could afford. Rayz moved among them with the quiet ease of someone used to watching rather than joining, his eyes drifting from stall to stall, taking in the colors, the sounds, the shifting moods of the crowd.

He paused at a table covered in jars of crushed herbs and powders. The merchant launched into a practiced explanation of their uses, but Rayz only half listened. His thoughts wandered, as they often did, to the road ahead. He had coin enough for a few more days, perhaps a week if he was careful, but he knew he would need work soon. He set the jar down and stepped away from the stall, letting the flow of the crowd carry him forward. The sea breeze tugged at his coat, and the distant clang of a ship’s bell echoed across the harbor. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply exist in the noise and movement, content to be another face in the crowd.

That was when he noticed the man watching him. The stranger stood a short distance away, dressed in a dark green coat trimmed with silver thread. His boots were polished, his hair neatly combed, and his posture carried the practiced confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed. Not noble, Rayz thought, but wealthy enough to pretend. The man approached with a measured stride.

“Master?” he said, his voice smooth and polite.

Rayz studied him for a moment before answering. “That depends on who is asking.”

The man smiled, though the smile never reached his eyes. “My name is Earl Terryn. I am the current owner of Draynor Manor.” Rayz inclined his head in return. “Rayz,” he said. “Just Rayz is fine.” He kept his tone even, inviting Terryn to continue while he studied the man’s posture and expression with quiet curiosity. Terryn cleared his throat. “I have been searching for you. I was told a Master was staying in Rimmington, and I hoped the rumor was true.” Rayz folded his arms. “Is there something I could help you with?”

Terryn glanced around, as though afraid of being overheard, then stepped closer. “My estate is troubled. The land is dying. Plants wither overnight. Trees rot from the inside out. Even the wildlife has begun to flee.” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “And there is something growing near the manor walls. Something unnatural.”

Rayz raised an eyebrow. “Unnatural in what way?”

Terryn reached into his coat and withdrew a small cloth bundle. He unfolded it carefully, revealing a piece of something dark and rigid. He held it out. Rayz took it between his fingers. It was a fragment of plant matter, if plant was even the right word. The texture was like bark, but smoother, almost polished. Its color was a deep, bruised purple, unlike anything Rayz had seen in the wild. When he pressed his thumb against it, it did not bend. It felt more like bone than wood. He turned it over, studying the grain. “Where did this come from.”

“From the thing growing out of the ground,” Terryn said. “It is as thick as a tree trunk, but it is not any tree I have ever seen. It is wrong. Twisted. And it is getting larger.”

Rayz frowned. “Have you spoken to an herbologist? A druid? Anyone who knows plants?”

Terryn’s expression tightened. “I did. Several, in fact. None could identify it. One claimed it was a blight. Another said it was a parasite. A third refused to return after seeing it.” He paused, swallowing. “But I no longer believe this is a natural affliction.”

Rayz looked up from the fragment. “What do you believe?”

Terryn hesitated, as though weighing whether Rayz would think him a fool. “I believe the land is cursed. By a demon.”

Rayz almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he handed the fragment back. “Demons do not usually bother with gardens.”

“This is no garden,” Terryn said sharply. “This is my home. My family’s home. And something is killing it.”

Rayz studied him more closely. Terryn’s hands trembled slightly as he wrapped the fragment again. His eyes were tired, ringed with sleeplessness. Whatever was happening at the manor, it had shaken him deeply.

Terryn continued, his voice quieter now. “I intended to hire someone, anyone, who could help. But when I heard a Master was nearby, I knew I had to try. You people know things. You see things others do not. And if this is truly a curse, I would rather trust a Master than a frightened herbologist.”

Rayz turned the fragment over in his hand one more time, unable to stop himself from studying the strange grain that ran through it. The texture was unlike any bark he had handled, the color too deep and unnatural to belong to any known species. It was wrong in a way that did not repel him, but invited him to look closer. He slipped the fragment back to Terryn, though his mind stayed fixed on it. This could be worth writing down, he thought. The school would want to know if something new was taking root in the world. And if the plant was dangerous, then understanding it mattered even more.

“What exactly do you want from me,” Rayz asked.

“Come to the manor,” Terryn said. “See the plant for yourself. Tell me what it is. Tell me how to stop it. I will pay you well for your time.”

Rayz considered the offer. He had taken stranger jobs before. And if this was truly something unnatural, something dangerous, then leaving it alone would only invite trouble later.

He nodded once. “All right. I will take a look.”

Relief softened Terryn’s features, and for the first time since approaching Rayz, his voice carried a note of genuine hope. “Thank you, Master Rayz. Truly. The manor is only a short carriage ride from here, no more than an hour at most. I will bring you back to Port Salim afterward, of course.”

They walked together through the thinning crowd until they reached a dark wooden carriage hitched to a pair of well‑kept horses. Terryn opened the door with a courteous sweep of his hand. Rayz stepped inside without hesitation, settling into the cushioned seat as Terryn climbed in after him. The door shut, the driver snapped the reins, and the carriage rolled forward, leaving the noise of the port behind as they set out toward Draynor Manor.

The carriage wheels rumbled over the packed dirt road, steady and rhythmic, a counterpoint to the distant cry of gulls fading behind them. Rayz sat opposite Terryn, watching the landscape shift from the lively sprawl of Port Salim to the quieter, rolling fields beyond. The air grew cooler as they left the coast, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Terryn cleared his throat, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Since you will be examining my estate, it is only fair that I tell you something of its history.”

Rayz nodded, settling back in his seat. “I would appreciate that.”

Terryn offered a polite smile. “Draynor Manor has been in my family for generations. A proud lineage, though not a particularly large one. The estate itself was built long before my time, of course. The original structure dates back several centuries, raised by one of my ancestors who wished to tame the wilds of this region. I inherited the manor about a decade ago. My cousin, distant cousin, really, was the previous owner. A quiet man. Reclusive. He never married, never had children. When he passed, the estate fell to me.”

Terryn pressed on. “The manor was in poor condition when I arrived. My cousin had neglected it in his later years. The fields were overgrown, the buildings in disrepair. I spent the better part of my first year restoring it. My wife and I moved in once it was livable, and our children were born there.”

Rayz glanced out the window. The trees were beginning to thin, giving way to open stretches of farmland. “And the land was healthy then?”

“Oh yes,” Terryn said, though his voice carried a faint tremor. “Quite healthy. Fertile soil, strong harvests. It was only in the last year that things began to… change.”

Rayz turned back to him. “Change how?”

Terryn hesitated, then exhaled. “It began with the crops. They wilted overnight, as though drained of life. Then the trees. Perfectly healthy one day, hollowed out the next. Animals fled. Birds stopped nesting. And then… the plant appeared.”

Rayz leaned forward slightly. “The one you showed me.”

“Yes.” Terryn’s fingers tightened around the edge of his coat. “It grew from the ground near the manor wall. At first it was small, no larger than a sapling. But it grew quickly. Too quickly. And its shape… its color… nothing about it is natural. I consulted herbologists, like I mentioned before. Several. They were baffled. One suggested it might be a rare fungus. Another thought it was diseased wood. None could agree. And when the plant began to grow larger, they refused to return.”

Rayz studied Terryn’s face. The man looked genuinely troubled, though Rayz had learned that fear and guilt often wore similar expressions.

“And you believe it is a curse,” Rayz said.

Terryn nodded. “What else could it be? The land is dying. The plant grows stronger. Something is feeding on my estate, Master Rayz. Something unnatural.”

Rayz tapped a finger lightly against his knee. “You mentioned your cousin died without heirs.”

“Yes,” Terryn said, too quickly again. “A lonely man. No children. No close family.”

Rayz let Terryn’s word pass, but took strong notice of what they meant. “And before him? Who owned the manor?”

Terryn waved a hand dismissively. “Old Draynor ancestors. The line was never large. Many died young. Illness, accidents, misfortune. The estate has always been… difficult to maintain.”

“Difficult how?”

Terryn hesitated, then forced a smile. “Old houses have old problems. Drafts. Rot. Strange noises. You know how it is.”

Rayz did not know how it was. Most old houses did not sprout mysterious plants. Still, he kept his expression neutral. “And the land? Has it always been fertile?”

“For the most part,” Terryn said. “Though some areas have always been stubborn. The soil near the old grove, for example. Nothing grows well there. My cousin claimed it was cursed ground, but I always assumed he was being dramatic.”

Rayz’s attention sharpened. “Grove?”

Terryn blinked, then nodded. “Yes. There used to be a grove on the property. Long before the manor was built. The trees were cleared centuries ago. Only a few stumps remain. My cousin said the grove was sacred to some old druidic line, but I never put much stock in such tales.” Rayz felt something shift in his chest. A druidic grove. Sacred land. A dying estate.Rayz nodded slowly, though his thoughts were already racing. The school archives held countless records of ancient groves, druidic rites, and the spirits tied to them.

Terryn leaned back as the carriage turned onto a narrower road. “We are close now. You will see the manor soon.” Rayz looked out the window. The trees ahead were thinning, their branches bare despite the season. The land seemed to sag under its own weight, as though something beneath the soil was pulling the life out of it. Terryn’s voice softened. “I only want my home restored. My family safe. Whatever is happening, I pray you can help.”

Rayz did not answer immediately. He watched the dying landscape roll past the carriage window, the first hints of the manor’s silhouette rising in the distance like a dark tooth against the horizon. The trees grew barer with every passing yard, their branches twisted and brittle, as though something had drained the life from them with hunger. Rayz finally turned from the window. “If there is something unnatural occurring,” he said, his voice steady, “I will do what I can to help.” Terryn exhaled with visible relief, as though the promise alone had lifted a weight from his shoulders.

The carriage crested a small rise, and the full expanse of Draynor Manor’s estate came into view. Rayz leaned forward slightly, studying the land with a quiet, focused intensity. The fields should have been green this time of year. Instead, they stretched out in dull shades of gray and brown, as if the soil itself had forgotten how to nourish life. Rows of crops lay collapsed and brittle, their stalks snapped like old bones. Patches of earth were sunken, cracked open in jagged lines that exposed dark, root‑choked soil beneath.

Closer to the manor, the trees fared no better. Their trunks were hollowed, their bark peeling in long, curling strips. Some leaned at unnatural angles, as though trying to pull themselves away from the house. Others stood frozen in place, skeletal and silent. A small stone chapel sat near the edge of the property, its roof sagging under years of neglect. Beside it lay a fenced graveyard, the iron bars rusted and bent. Rayz noted the headstones, some upright, some toppled, some half‑swallowed by creeping roots that had broken through the soil. A few graves looked disturbed, the earth uneven and cracked.

As the carriage rolled closer, more structures came into view. A pair of long wooden bunkhouses sat near the fields, their windows dark. These, Terryn explained, were the living quarters for the help for the manor. A storage barn stood farther back, its roof patched with mismatched boards. A well sat beside it, the bucket left lying on its side as if dropped mid‑use. Everything about the place felt abandoned, or worse… interrupted. Finally, the manor itself came into full view.

Draynor Manor was a sprawling stone structure, built in the old style of coastal lords. Its walls were tall and weathered, streaked with dark stains from years of storms. Narrow windows lined the upper floors, their shutters closed tight. Two square towers rose from the corners of the main building, their walls chipped and uneven. A wide set of stone steps led to the front doors, which were carved with faded heraldic symbols Rayz did not recognize. It was not a castle, but it had the bones of one. Solid, imposing, built to withstand both weather and war. Yet something about it felt hollow. As if the manor itself were tired, sagging under the weight of whatever plagued the land.

Rayz’s gaze drifted to the right side of the manor, where Terryn had said the strange plant grew. Even from a distance, he could see the top of it rising above the wall. A jagged, unnatural silhouette against the sky. The carriage slowed as they approached the front steps. The horses snorted uneasily, stamping their hooves as if they sensed something Rayz could not yet see. Terryn cleared his throat. “Welcome to Draynor Manor,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. Rayz stepped down from the carriage, boots crunching on the gravel path. The air here felt heavier, thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. He took a slow breath, letting his senses adjust.

Terryn led Rayz down the front steps of the manor. The air felt heavier here, thick with the scent of damp soil and something faintly metallic. They walked first toward the fields. What should have been rows of healthy crops were nothing more than brittle stalks that snapped under the slightest touch. Rayz crouched and brushed his fingers across the soil. It crumbled like ash. No moisture.

Terryn stood a few steps behind him. “It happened quickly,” he said. “One morning the fields were green. The next they looked like this.”

Rayz continued walking. The land sloped gently downward toward the small graveyard he had seen from the carriage. The iron fence surrounding it was bent in several places, as if roots had pushed up from beneath and warped the metal. Headstones leaned at odd angles. Some were cracked. Others were half swallowed by the earth.

Rayz paused at the fence. “How long has the graveyard been like this.”

Terryn hesitated. “It has always been a little neglected. The land shifts. The soil settles.”

Rayz did not comment. He simply noted the way the ground bulged in places, as though something beneath it had grown and pushed upward.They continued toward the far edge of the manor grounds, where the land dipped into a shallow hollow. The grass here was sparse and pale. The soil was cracked. And in the center of the hollow, rising from the earth like a twisted monument, stood the plant. Itt was larger than he expected. Nearly twenty feet tall, thick as an old oak trunk, but nothing about it resembled a tree. Its surface was smooth and dark, the same deep purple as the fragment Terryn had shown him. Branches jutted out at sharp angles, each one crooked and jagged, as if grown in pain rather than nature. The entire structure leaned slightly toward the manor, as if pointing an accusing finger at one of the upper windows.

Rayz stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “How long has it been this size.”

Terryn swallowed. “It was half this height a month ago.”

Rayz circled the base. The roots were not roots at all. They were tendrils, thick and rope like, burrowing into the earth with unnatural precision. He reached out and touched the surface lightly with the back of his fingers. It was cold. Not the cold of winter, but the cold of stone that had never known sunlight.

“This is not a blight,” Rayz murmured. “And it is not any plant I have seen. There are many possibilities before we assume anything demonic.”

Terryn stiffened. “It is demonic.”

Rayz glanced over his shoulder. “You keep saying that. Why are you so certain?”

Terryn hesitated. His jaw tightened. “Because of something I did not show you earlier.”

Rayz straightened. Terryn reached into his coat and withdrew a small knife. The blade caught the fading light, a thin glint of silver against the darkening sky. “You will understand when you see it.”

Rayz opened his mouth to question him further, but Terryn had already stepped forward. He approached the plant with a strange mixture of fear and determination, as though he had rehearsed this moment many times. He pressed the blade to the surface and dragged the knife across the trunk in a slow, deliberate line. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The cut remained a thin pale mark, no different from a scratch on stone. Then the mark darkened. A bead of red swelled at the center of the cut. Rayz’s breath caught. Another bead formed beside it. Then another. The liquid thickened, gathering at the wound before spilling over the edge and running down the trunk in slow, viscous trails.

Terryn stepped back, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because it bleeds...”

The last of the daylight slipped behind the hills, leaving the estate in a dim, bruised twilight. The bleeding plant still glistened with its slow red trickle, and Rayz found himself staring at it longer than he intended. The air felt colder now, as if the land itself recoiled from what had been revealed. Terryn cleared his throat softly. “It is getting dark. You should not travel back tonight. The roads are not safe after sundown, and I would not have you ride alone after seeing this.”

Rayz tore his gaze from the plant. “I was not planning to leave yet. There is more here than a single strange growth. Staying will make it easier to understand what is happening.”

Terryn exhaled with visible relief. “Good. Come. Let us get inside before the cold settles.” They walked back toward the manor, the gravel path crunching beneath their boots. The windows glowed faintly with warm candlelight, a stark contrast to the lifeless fields surrounding them. As they approached the front steps, Rayz felt the weight of the place settle around him. The manor was old, proud, and tired. It felt like a structure that had endured too much and remembered all of it.

Inside, the air was warmer and carried the scent of roasted meat and herbs. Terryn called out to someone unseen, and a servant hurried off toward the kitchens. “I asked them to prepare something special,” Terryn said. “It is not often we have a guest.”

Rayz followed him through a wide hall lined with portraits. Most were faded, their subjects staring out with somber expressions. A few frames were empty, their canvases removed. Rayz noted the dust patterns on the walls. Some portraits had been taken down recently. Terryn led him into a large dining room where a long wooden table dominated the space. Candles flickered in iron holders, casting warm light across platters of food already being arranged. Roasted fowl, fresh bread, root vegetables, and a dark gravy that steamed in a silver bowl. It was far more than Rayz expected from a family living on dying land.

Terryn gestured toward the table. “Please, sit. My family will join us shortly.”

Rayz took a seat near the center, his eyes drifting to the tall windows. Beyond the glass, the fields were swallowed by darkness. Only the faint outline of the strange plant remained visible, a crooked silhouette against the night sky. Footsteps approached. Terryn stood with a woman and two children. “This is my wife, Joan,” he said. “And these are our children, Marianna and Isaac.”

Joan offered a polite smile. She was a slender woman with tired eyes and a calm, practiced grace. Her hands rested lightly on the shoulders of the children as she guided them forward. Marianna, twelve by Terryn’s earlier mention, gave Rayz a curious look. She had her mother’s dark hair and her father’s sharp features. Isaac, younger and smaller, clung to his mother’s side at first, though his eyes flicked toward Rayz with a mixture of shyness and interest.

Rayz inclined his head. “It is good to meet you.”

Joan returned the gesture. “Terryn tells us you are here to help.”

“I am here to understand what is happening,” Rayz said. “If I can help, I will.”

Terryn kept the early conversation light, speaking of weather patterns, trade routes, and the difficulty of maintaining an estate of this size. Yet Rayz noticed the way Terryn’s eyes drifted toward the windows whenever the wind pressed against the glass. Terryn must have sensed Rayz’s quiet observation, because he cleared his throat and shifted the conversation. “You should know something of the manor’s history,” he said, lifting his wine cup. “It is a proud one. My family’s roots run deep in this region.” Rayz nodded, encouraging him to continue.

Terryn leaned back slightly, adopting the tone of a man reciting a story he had told many times. “Long ago, before the coast was settled, this land was nothing but dense forest. Kingdoms were expanding then, pushing their borders outward. Roads were carved through wilderness. Trade routes were established. Civilization was spreading, but slowly. The coast was wild, untamed, and dangerous.”

He gestured toward the window, as if the darkness outside still held echoes of that ancient wilderness. “The Draynor family was among the first to see potential here. They were not nobles at the time, not yet, but they were ambitious. Visionaries. They believed the coast could become a center of trade and prosperity. All it needed was a foothold. A strong estate. A place where travelers could rest and merchants could gather.” Rayz listened carefully. Terryn’s voice carried pride, but also something else, an eagerness to be believed.

“There was a grove here once, a beautiful place, but wild. Travelers avoided it. They said the trees whispered at night. They said the animals behaved strangely. Superstitions, of course. Old fears. My ancestors saw only land that could be shaped into something greater. They approached the people who lived near the grove. They offered gold. Land. Titles. Everything done properly and with respect. But the region was lawless then, and not everyone wished to see progress. Some clung to old ways. Some refused to leave. In the end, my ancestors did what was necessary to secure the land and protect the settlers who would one day live here.”

Terryn continued, “Once the grove was cleared, the manor was built stone by stone. The original structure was smaller than what you see now. A fortified hall, really. Thick walls, narrow windows, a place that could withstand storms and bandits alike. Over generations, the Draynors expanded it. Towers were added. Wings were built. The chapel was constructed for the workers and their families. The mausoleum for the honored dead.”

Joan nodded faintly, as if she had heard the story many times. Marianna listened with wide eyes. Isaac poked at his food. Terryn took a sip of wine before continuing. “The Draynors became respected landholders. They brought order to the coast. They established trade with nearby towns. They protected travelers from the dangers of the wild. For centuries, the manor stood as a symbol of stability.”

Rayz raised an eyebrow slightly. “And the land remained fertile all that time.”

“For the most part,” Terryn said. “There were difficult years, of course. Storms. Poor harvests. Illness. But the Draynors endured. They always endured.”

Rayz noticed the way Terryn’s voice softened on that last line, as though he were trying to convince himself as much as Rayz.

Terryn continued. “My own branch of the family lived farther inland. We were not the primary heirs. The main line held the manor for generations. But as time passed, the family grew smaller. Some died young. Some left the region. Some simply vanished.”

He paused, then added, “You may see some of their names in the chapel records or the mausoleum. Alistair Draynor, for example. A distant cousin. A good man. He died far too young. And Lysa Draynor, his mother. A kind woman. She passed several years before him. There were others as well. The Draynor line was never large. Some children did not survive infancy. There is a small grave in the far corner of the yard. A tragedy, but not uncommon in those days. The last true heir was Alistair. He never married. Never had children. When he passed, the estate fell to me. I arrived about a decade ago. When I arrived, the manor was in poor condition. My cousin had neglected it in his later years. The fields were overgrown. The buildings needed repair. My wife and I spent months restoring it. We wanted to bring the estate back to its former glory.”

Joan offered a small smile. “It was a great deal of work.”

Terryn nodded. “But worth it. For a time, the land flourished again. Our children were born here. The fields grew strong. The workers returned. It felt as though the manor had awakened after a long sleep.” His voice lowered. “Then, last year, the land began to fail. Slowly at first. A few crops withered. A tree rotted from the inside. The animals grew restless. I thought it was a natural cycle. A bad season. But it grew worse. Much worse.” He swallowed. “And then the plant appeared.” Terryn finished his tale with a quiet, trembling breath. “Whatever is happening, it is not natural. My family has tended this land for centuries. We have faced storms and famine and war. But never this. Never something that feels alive beneath the soil.”

Dinner wound down slowly, the last of the candlelight flickering across empty plates and half‑finished cups. The warmth of the room could not quite mask the tension that lingered beneath the surface. Rayz set down his fork and leaned back slightly, letting the quiet settle before he spoke. “There is something I would like to see before the night grows too late,” he said.

Terryn looked up, wary. “Of course. What do you need.”

Rayz folded his hands. “The plant outside. It seems to be leaning toward a particular window. I want to see the room it appears to be pointing at.”

Terryn stiffened. “Appears to be pointing? You do not actually believe it is directing itself.”

Rayz kept his voice calm. “I do not know what I believe yet. But the angle could be deliberate. If so, I want to understand why.”

Terryn hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Very well. I will show you.”

Rayz continued. “I also want to see the graveyard and the mausoleum.”

They rose from the table. Joan gathered the children close for a moment, brushing Isaac’s hair back from his forehead. “Do not keep Master Rayz too long,” she said softly. “It has been a long day.”

Isaac nodded, though his eyes drifted toward Rayz with a mixture of curiosity and caution. Terryn gestured toward the stairs. “Come. It is on the upper floor.” The manor’s corridors were dim, lit only by wall sconces that cast long shadows across the stone. The air grew cooler as they climbed the staircase, the wooden steps creaking beneath their weight. Rayz walked behind Terryn, Isaac trailing a few steps behind Rayz, small and quiet. At the top of the stairs, Terryn paused before a long hallway lined with closed doors. “The room you want is at the end,” he said. “Though I assure you, there is nothing unusual about it.”

Rayz did not respond. He simply followed. Terryn stopped at the final door and opened it. The room was small but warm, with a simple bed pushed against the far wall, a wooden chest at its foot, and a window overlooking the dying fields. A few toys lay scattered near a rug. A small shelf held carved animals and a wooden knight with a chipped shield. It was a child’s room. Isaac’s room.

Rayz turned to Terryn. “This is where the plant is facing?” Terryn nodded stiffly. “Yes. But it is coincidence. Nothing more.”

Rayz stepped toward the window. The glass was cold beneath his fingertips. Outside, the silhouette of the plant loomed in the darkness, its jagged branches reaching upward like twisted arms. Even in the dim light, Rayz could see the angle of its trunk, the way it leaned. Not toward the manor in general, but toward this window specifically. He felt Isaac approach beside him, small and hesitant.

Rayz crouched slightly to meet the boy’s height. “Isaac,” he said gently. “Have you noticed anything strange outside your window? Anything unusual?”

Isaac shook his head. “No. Nothing strange.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes.” Isaac stepped closer to the window, peering out with a familiarity that surprised Rayz. “I look at it a lot. The plant. It is weird. But it does not do anything.”

Rayz studied him. “You watch it often?”

Isaac nodded. “It is big. And ugly. And it keeps growing. But it never moves. Not when I am looking.”

Rayz considered that. Children noticed things adults dismissed. Their instincts were often sharper, unclouded by fear or pride. He turned from the window. Isaac’s gaze drifted downward, landing on the necklace resting against Rayz’s chest. The yellow gem clasped in the ornate hand caught the candlelight, glowing faintly.

“What is that?” Isaac asked. “Your necklace. What does it mean?”

Rayz touched the gem lightly. “It means survival.”

Isaac blinked. “Survival.”

“Yes.” Rayz let the word settle. “It is a reminder. Of what I have learned. Of what I have endured. And of what I must continue to do.”

Isaac studied the gem with quiet fascination. “Did someone give it to you?”

“It was earned. It reminds me to keep going. Even when things are difficult.”

Isaac looked up at him. “Are things difficult here?”

Rayz met the boy’s eyes. They were wide, earnest, and far too aware for a child his age. “Something is wrong with the land,” Rayz said. “But I am here to help.”

Isaac’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Good.”

Rayz felt something shift in his chest. Terryn cleared his throat from the doorway. “Isaac, give Master Rayz space. He needs to examine the room.” Isaac stepped back, but not before giving Rayz a small, trusting nod. Rayz returned it. Rayz stood and examined the room more thoroughly. Nothing seemed disturbed. No strange markings. No signs of intrusion. But the window… the window felt wrong. As if something watched from the darkness outside.

Rayz stepped back from the window, the silhouette of the twisted plant still etched in his mind. The room felt colder now, as though the air itself recoiled from the thing outside. He turned toward Terryn, who lingered in the doorway with Isaac half‑hidden behind him.

“I want to see the graveyard,” Rayz said. “And the mausoleum. Tonight.”

Terryn blinked, startled. “Tonight.”

“Yes.”

Terryn’s jaw tightened. “Master Rayz, the grounds are dangerous after dark. The land shifts. The roots… move. It would be wiser to wait until morning.”

Rayz shook his head. “Whatever is happening here is not waiting for morning. I need to see everything now.”

Terryn hesitated, and for a moment Rayz saw something flicker across his face. Fear, yes, but also something else. A quiet, desperate hope that Rayz would solve this while still be closer to the manor. Rayz turned toward the hallway. Isaac still lingered there, small fingers curled around the doorframe. The boy’s eyes were wide, uncertain, but not afraid of Rayz. If anything, he seemed relieved. He whispered a prayer under his breath, but not one of The Blessings. He whispered a prayer of his father’s.

Rayz closed the door to his guest room behind him, shutting out the dim corridor and the uneasy quiet of the manor. The room was modest but clean, lit by a single candle on the bedside table. Shadows clung to the corners, stretching long across the wooden floorboards. A cold draft slipped through the window frame, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth. Against the far wall sat a wooden chest, old but sturdy, its iron hinges dulled with age.

He knelt beside the chest and placed his palm flat against the lid. The chest glowed with the magical aura of the Chestbound spell. A faint shimmer rippled across the surface, like moonlight passing over still water. The chest creaked softly, not opening, but shifting. Its interior aligning with the pocket of personal space Rayz carried with him from place to place. A private inventory. A traveler’s anchor. A piece of home he could summon wherever he went.

Inside, instead of the empty storage space the manor provided, Rayz saw his belongings arranged exactly as he had left them the last time he invoked the spell. He reached in and lifted the armor first. It was not heavy, designed for movement, not brute force He fastened the chestpiece, tightened the straps along his arms.Then he pulled up his runeite sword and sheathed it at his side. The chest closed with a soft click, the spell fading. Rayz blew out the candle.

He stepped into the hallway, descended the stairs, and crossed the silent front hall. The door groaned as he pushed it open, letting in the chill of the night. The sky was moonless, the land swallowed in shadow. Only the faint outline of the chapel and the crooked fence of the graveyard were visible against the horizon.

Rayz walked toward them, boots crunching softly on the gravel path. The air grew colder with each step.The graveyard waited ahead, its iron gate half open, swaying gently in the wind as though inviting him in.He crossed the threshold of the gate,and the night seemed to hold its breath.

The graveyard behind Draynor Manor was small, no more than a fenced patch of earth tucked beside the chapel. The hinges groaned as he pushed it open, the sound long and low, like something waking from a long sleep. A colder air drifted out to meet him, colder than the rest of the estate, colder than the night itself. It felt as though the soil here remembered what the living had forgotten. Some headstones leaned at odd angles, others were cracked, and a few were nearly swallowed by creeping roots that had broken through the earth like dark, gnarled fingers. The wind whispered through the crooked fence, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and something older beneath it.

Rayz lifted his hand and whispered a short incantation under his breath. A faint spark flickered to life in his palm, then steadied into a small ember no brighter than a candle flame. It hovered just above his skin, warm but harmless. It was the only fire spell he knew, one taught to all Masters through a binding scroll, more practical than impressive.

The ember cast a soft, wavering glow across the graveyard as he moved between the stones. Shadows stretched and curled with each step, bending around the crooked markers and half‑sunken earth. Rayz held his palm slightly forward, letting the gentle light spill over names and dates carved into weathered stone. He stopped before a stone marked Alistair Draynor. The date of death was marked only five years ago.

Rayz frowned. Five years. Terryn had spoken of inheriting the manor a decade ago, from a distant cousin who died without heirs. He had described the man as elderly, reclusive, alone. But Alistair Draynor had been younger than Terryn, and he had died only five years ago.

Rayz brushed moss from the epitaph. May the coast remember your kindness. Kindness. Not the word Terryn had used to describe his predecessor. Terryn had spoken of a man who neglected the estate, who let it rot, who left the land to decay. Perhaps Terryn had misspoken. Perhaps he had rounded the years in his memory. People did that. Especially when grief was involved.

A second stone caught his eye. Lysa Draynor died seven years ago. “Beloved mother, taken too soon.” Rayz paused longer this time. Terryn had never mentioned a mother. Never mentioned siblings. Never mentioned that the previous owner had a family at all. He had spoken as though the manor had passed cleanly into his hands. But the graves suggested a family that had lived here recently, and died recently. Too recently. Rayz exhaled slowly, letting the cold air settle in his lungs. He reminded himself not to jump to conclusions. Families were complicated. Stories were often simplified for guests. Terryn might have chosen not to speak of certain relatives. That did not make him a liar.

Still, Rayz continued deeper into the graveyard, the lantern’s light flickering across more stones. The wind pressed against the fence, making it rattle softly, like distant laughter or quiet warning. He found another marker, half buried beneath a tangle of roots. M. Draynor. No dates. No epitaph. Just a small stone marking a small life. Rayz crouched, brushing away the weeds. The soil here was disturbed, uneven. Roots had broken through the earth in jagged lines, the same deep purple as the plant Terryn had shown him. He touched one lightly. He stared at the root for a long moment. Terryn had claimed the strange plant appeared only in the last year. But these roots may be growing for far longer. Years, perhaps. Long enough to reach the graves. Long enough to disturb them.

He turned toward the chapel. The fire’s glow spilled across the threshold, revealing dust‑coated pews and a stone altar at the far end. Rayz stepped inside, boots echoing softly on the floor. The air was stale, but the altar was clean. Very clean as if someone had wiped it recently.Rayz approached it, running his fingers along the smooth surface. Behind the altar, tucked into a small alcove, he found a ledger bound in cracked leather. He lifted it carefully and opened it. Births. Deaths. Marriages. All recorded in a neat, steady hand. He flipped through the pages.

Terryn’s name appeared only once.

Not as heir.
Not as owner.
As temporary steward.

Three years ago.

Rayz’s brow furrowed. Terryn had said he inherited the manor a decade ago. Yet the chapel records listed him as a steward, someone appointed to manage the estate, not own it. He closed the book slowly. The chapel felt smaller now. The shadows deeper. The silence heavier.

Rayz stepped back outside, the mausoleum waited at the far end of the graveyard, its stone door slightly ajar. He pushed the door open. Dust coated the floor, but the air was not stale. Something had disturbed it recently.Plaques lined the walls, carved with the names of Draynor ancestors. Most were centuries old. But near the back, he found a row of plaques added within the last twenty years.One name stood out. Elowen Draynor. Her plaque was larger than the others, carved with care, decorated with a faded wreath of dried flowers. Beneath her name was a single line:

Mother of the Grove.

Terryn had spoken of the manor’s history, and of the grove, but never mentioned a woman honored as its mother. Rayz traced the carved letters with his fingertips. The stone was smoother here than on the other plaques, as though someone had touched it often. Recently, even. The wreath of dried flowers draped above it had long since lost its color, but the stems were intact, not crumbling to dust. Someone had placed them here within the last few months.

He leaned in, letting the ember’s glow spill across the edges of the plaque. The stone around Elowen’s name was darker than the rest, stained in faint streaks that ran downward like old watermarks. But when Rayz brushed the surface, the texture was wrong. Not water. Not age. Burn marks. Thin, branching lines of soot clung to the stone, almost invisible unless one looked closely. He moved the ember closer to the wreath. The dried stems were woven with surprising care, each loop and knot deliberate. A few petals clung stubbornly to the dead flowers.

He studied the other plaques nearby. Most were simple, unadorned. Names. Dates. A few short epitaphs. But none bore wreaths. None had burn marks. None had been touched recently. Only Elowen’s. He stepped back further, letting the ember illuminate the entire wall. The plaques formed a timeline of the Draynor family. Centuries of names carved into stone. But something about the sequence felt wrong. Elowen’s plaque was older than the others around it, yet it had been placed in a position of prominence, centered at eye level, framed by two newer plaques. As though someone had moved it.

Rayz turned toward the door, believing there was nothing else to find. The ember in his palm dimmed to a soft glow as he stepped back, letting the plaque of Elowen fade into shadow. He closed his hand around the ember, dimming it further until it vanished, and began the slow walk back toward the manor. The wind whispered through the grass, carrying the faint scent of ash and damp soil. The chapel loomed to his right, its crooked door swaying gently. The manor’s silhouette rose ahead, dark against the moonless sky. Rayz took another step.

And then—

A scream tore through the night. High, sharp, and unmistakably human. It came from the direction of the living quarters, the small bunkhouses where the manor’s help slept. Rayz sprinted across the courtyard. He reached the squat wooden building and shoved the door open. Chaos erupted around him. Workers scrambled across the cramped room, tripping over cots and overturned stools as they fled toward the far exit. Some pressed themselves against the walls, hands over their mouths to stifle sobs. Others simply froze, unable to look away from the thing in the center of the room. Rayz followed their gaze. And his breath caught.

A worker was pinned upright against the far wall. His back was arched unnaturally, pressed so hard against the boards that the ceiling beams above him creaked under the strain. His limbs hung limp, dangling like the limbs of a puppet whose strings had been cut. Except he wasn’t falling. He was being held there.

Vines. Thick, dark, and the same unnatural color as the monstrous plant outside, snaked through the cracks in the floorboards and walls. They climbed upward in writhing coils, converging on the worker’s body. They wrapped around him in pulsing, rhythmic motions, tightening and releasing as though testing the limits of the flesh they gripped. The vines made their way from his back and into anywhere they could find. The mouth, nostrils, ears and eyes. For each entry a vine found, a string of blood flowed down. The ground beneath him was a slick pool red. Under the skin the vines move and pulse, as if getting themselves familiar with their new host. Sections of skin looks like they could be ripped by the vines that crawled underneath, while others were. Sections of skin splintered open revealing flesh and the purple skin of the plant.

Rayz’s hand went to his sword. The worker’s head jerked upward. Not lifted. Pulled. His jaw hung open at an odd angle, as if something inside were tugging it from within. His eyes rolled, unfocused, the whites showing in a way that made Rayz’s stomach twist. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths if they were breaths at all. Rayz stepped closer, sword drawn.He looked at the worker’s face. The man’s expression was slack, empty, but not peaceful. There was tension in the muscles around his eyes, a faint tremor in his jaw. His eyelids fluttered, not in unconsciousness, but in something closer to panic. His lips twitched, as though trying to form words he no longer controlled.

Rayz’s stomach tightened. Is he alive in there? Is he feeling this? Is he trapped inside his own body, aware of every moment? The thought chilled him more than the night air. The vines pulsed again. The worker’s body twitched.

A low, strained sound escaped his throat. Half groan, half exhale. The vines along his back tightened, and his jaw snapped shut, then opened, then shut again, as though something inside was trying to understand how to move it. Rayz took another step forward.

“Get back!” he shouted to the workers behind him.

They didn’t need to be told twice. They fled through the far door, stumbling over one another in their desperation to escape. A few remained frozen in place, but Rayz’s voice snapped them out of it, and they bolted after the others. The room fell silent except for the creaking of the beams and the soft, rhythmic pulse of the vines. Rayz’s eyes stayed fixed on the worker’s face.

The man’s gaze drifted, then snapped back, then drifted again, as though the thing inside was trying to understand how sight worked. His mouth opened and closed in stiff, unnatural motions. And then, in a voice that was not his own, too deep, too hollow, too strained… the body spoke.

“Mother…”

The word dragged out of him like something pulled from the bottom of a well. The jaw moved in stiff, unnatural motions, as though the vines were forcing it to shape the syllables. The sound vibrated through the room, low and resonant, carrying a weight that made Rayz’s skin crawl.

“What do you want,” he demanded, voice low but firm.

“The heir.”

Rayz blinked. “The heir? What heir?.”

The worker’s lips curled, not in a smile but in a grimace shaped by something that did not understand the expression. “You… do not know.” The voice wavered, then steadied. “Then listen. Hear. Remember.” Rayz didn’t lower his sword, but he didn’t interrupt. “Long… before stone… before name… before Draynor…There was a grove.”

The worker’s eyes drifted upward, as though seeing something far beyond the wooden ceiling. “A living place. She was its heart. Elowen. Born of druids. Born of old blood. Born to tend the land where the veil softened.” The voice grew clearer, almost gentle. “Her grove was the brightest of them all. Trees that touched the sky. Leaves that shimmered with colors no mortal tongue could name. Flowers that bloomed in winter. Soil rich enough to coax life from stone. Travelers passed through and felt watched,” the creature continued. “Not with fear. Not with hunger. But with… curiosity. The land knew them. The land saw them.” The worker’s head tilted again, the motion too smooth, too controlled. “But the world changed.”

The voice cracked, slipping into something harsher. “Kingdoms grew. Roads carved through sacred places. And the grove… stood in the path of ambition. The Draynor family,” the creature said, the name spoken with a strange mixture of reverence and bitterness. “Hungry for land. Hungry for power. They sought to build an estate that would anchor their rise. They offered gold. She refused. They offered titles. She refused again. They offered safety, protection, promises.” The vines pulsed, as if angry.

“She refused. And so… they took.”

The voice deepened, slipping into a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the room. “The grove burned.” The worker’s body jerked, as though remembering the heat. “Three days. Three nights. Flames that devoured the sky. Trees that screamed as they fell. Spirits that fled into the earth or died in the smoke. Elowen lived,” the creature said softly. “But her grove did not.” The worker’s eyes rolled, then fixed on Rayz with sudden clarity. “She wept. For the trees. For the spirits. For the land that had trusted her. And in her grief… she cursed the Draynor line. Not with fire. Not with plague. But with something older. Something deeper. She bound her spirit to the land. Performed a ritual forbidden even among her own. She buried her heart beneath the oldest tree. And in doing so… surrendered her humanity.”

The voice softened. “Her body died.” A pause. “Her spirit did not. What rose from the soil,” the creature continued, “was not Lady Elowen. It was Mother. A being of root and bark. Of sap and sorrow. A guardian twisted by grief.” The worker’s head jerked, the vines pulsing in rhythm. “The Draynors built their manor atop her grave. They prospered. The land was fertile. Too fertile.”

The voice cracked, then steadied. “Every generation, a child was born with a mark. A streak of green in the eyes. A sensitivity to the earth. These children wandered the fields at night. Spoke to shadows. Heard whispers in the soil. Some grew ill. Some vanished. The Draynors called it a curse.” The worker’s jaw twitched. “They did not understand. Mother remembered her lineage. She sought to reclaim what was taken. She could not touch the Draynors directly. But she could shape the land. Coax roots to grow where no roots should be. Twist vines into limbs. Give them hunger. The Children,” the creature said. “Not demons. Not undead. The grove’s last breath, given form. For centuries, the Draynor line dwindled. Wars. Plagues. Misfortune. Until the manor passed to strangers. Pretenders. Those who cared nothing for the land. But the bloodline did not vanish. One branch fled. Changed their name. Lived quietly. The blood thinned… but did not die. And now…” The vines tightened. “Mother has sensed it again. The last descendant. The final seed. The vessel through which the grove may rise again.”

“Mother calls to her child, like all mothers,” the creature whispered. “The plant outside is not an invader. It is a beacon. A reaching hand. A mother calling to her child. The land dies because Mother draws its life inward. Preparing for rebirth. The Children rise because they long for another.”

The worker’s voice cracked, slipping into something inhuman. “Mother does not seek vengeance alone. She seeks continuation. She seeks… return. She seeks her blood. She seeks her grove. She seeks her child!” The worker’s head jerked forward, eyes rolling back. “Mother…” The word echoed through the room, hollow and resonant.

The worker’s body twitched once more, the vines along his back pulsing in a slow, hungry rhythm. Then the creature shifted, its legs dangling uselessly as the vines lowered it toward the floor. The movement was jerky, unnatural, like a puppet being dragged by tangled strings. Rayz stepped back, sword raised. The creature touched the ground, and then it lurched toward him.

His blade flashed in the dim light, slicing through the mass of vines with a sharp, practiced motion. The creature convulsed, the worker’s limbs flailing as though the body itself resisted the separation. A shrill, piercing screech tore from its throat, too loud, too layered, too wrong to belong to anything human. Rayz gritted his teeth and struck again. The vines recoiled, spasming violently. The worker’s body sagged, collapsing inward as though the thing inside had lost its grip. The screech rose to a fever pitch, echoing off the wooden walls, rattling the beams overhead. Rayz braced himself, heart pounding, but his hands stayed steady.

He lowered his sword slowly, forcing himself to stay calm despite the tremor running through his chest. He stepped back from the body, eyes scanning the room for any sign of movement. Nothing. The vines lay limp, lifeless, like severed roots drying in the sun. Rayz turned and ran. He sprinted across the courtyard, boots pounding against the stone path. The manor loomed ahead. As he approached, the front door swung open and Terryn appeared in the threshold, lantern in hand, eyes wide with confusion and fear.

“Master Rayz—what happened? I heard—”

Rayz pushed past him, slamming the door shut. “Lock it!”

Terryn blinked. “What—”

“Lock it!” Rayz threw the bolt himself, then dragged the secondary latch into place. His breath came fast, but his voice was steady. “We’re not safe!”

Terryn swallowed hard. “What did you see?”

Rayz turned to him, sword still in hand. “I saw a creature wearing one of your workers like clothing. I saw vines moving through the walls. And I heard it speak of an heir.”

Terryn paled. Rayz stepped closer. “You lied to me. About the manor. About its history. About Isaac.”

Terryn’s mouth opened, then closed. His shoulders sagged. “I… I had no choice.”

“You told me you inherited this place,” Rayz said. “But the chapel records say otherwise.”

Terryn flinched. “I was a steward. Nothing more. The manor was abandoned when I arrived. I was meant to maintain it until a rightful heir could be found.”

Rayz’s grip tightened on his sword. “And Isaac?”

Terryn hesitated, then exhaled shakily. “I discovered his lineage by accident. A birth record. A name. A mark. He was the last of them. The only one left.” His voice cracked. “If anyone learned the truth, they would take him. Use him. Or worse.”

“So you claimed him as your son.”

Terryn nodded. “If questions were raised, I needed a story. A reason for him to be here. And if he was the heir… then I could control what happened next.” Rayz stared at him, the weight of the night settling heavily on his shoulders. Outside, the wind pressed against the manor walls like something searching for a way in. Terryn’s confession hung in the air like a weight neither man could lift. Before Rayz could respond, hurried footsteps thundered down the stairs. Terryn’s wife appeared first, pale and trembling, her nightdress clutched tightly at her chest. The children followed close behind wide‑eyed, frightened, clinging to one another.

“What’s happening?” she cried. “Terryn, what was that sound? What’s going on?”

Rayz spun toward them, voice sharp with urgency. “Back upstairs. All of you. Now!” The children froze, startled by the force in his tone. Terryn’s wife hesitated, looking between Rayz and her husband, searching for reassurance that neither could give. “Go,” Rayz barked. “Stay together. Do not leave the room. Do not open the door for anyone.”

Terryn nodded weakly. “Listen to him. Go.”

She gathered the children and hurried them back up the stairs, their footsteps fading into the upper hall. “We need to secure the manor,” Rayz said. “Every door. Every window. Every crack large enough for a vine to slip through.”

Terryn swallowed hard. “Yes… yes, of course.”

“And we board the entryways,” Rayz added. “Anything that can be sealed, we seal.”

Terryn nodded again, quieter this time. “I’ll show you everything.”

They moved quickly through the manor, Rayz checking latches while Terryn pointed out lesser‑used doors and narrow servant passages.They reached a small sitting room near the east wing, a room Rayz hadn’t seen earlier. Terryn pushed the door open, stepping inside first.Rayz felt it before he saw it. A wrongness in the air, a faint tremor beneath the floorboards. Then he saw the vines.They had already breached the room, slipping through cracks in the wall and a narrow opening in the window frame. They curled along the floor like searching fingers, climbing the walls in slow, deliberate spirals. The air smelled faintly of earth and rot.

“Back!” Rayz shouted.

But the vines moved faster than either man expected. A cluster of them surged forward, lashing toward Rayz like striking serpents. He swung his sword in a clean arc, slicing through the first wave. The severed vines recoiled, writhing on the floor before falling still. Another cluster shot toward him. Rayz pivoted, slashing again. He didn’t see the ones behind Terryn until it was too late.The vines wrapped around Terryn’s arms, his legs, his torso, pulling him backward with terrifying force. He stumbled, gasping, clawing at the tendrils as they tightened around him. Rayz lunged forward, but more vines surged between them, forcing him back. Terryn’s eyes widened in terror as the vines climbed higher, coiling around his neck, his jaw, his scalp. His mouth opened in a silent cry, but no sound escaped. His body convulsed, but the vines held him upright, pinning him against the wall. They entered anywhere they could find. Digging deep through orifice. Blood spewing as each vines thrashed.

Rayz slashed at the vines blocking his path, cutting through them one by one, but more kept coming, weaving themselves into a barrier of writhing limbs. Terryn’s body jerked violently. He was in too much pain to scream.His hands clawed at the air, fingers curling and uncurling in frantic, desperate motions. His eyes rolled, then fixed on Rayz with a look of pure, pleading terror. Rayz fought his way forward, but the vines surged again, forming a wall between them. He slashed at them until his arms burned, but they kept coming, relentless, endless. Terryn’s movements slowed. His hands dropped. His body sagged. The vines held him upright, but Terryn himself no longer fought.

Rayz took the stairs two at a time, the manor shaking around him as if the very walls were breathing. The screams from above were sharp, panicked, and far too close. He reached the landing and sprinted down the hallway, boots pounding against the old floorboards..A door near the end bulged inward, its hinges straining as vines forced their way through the cracks. Thin tendrils slipped beneath the frame, writhing like searching fingers. The wood splintered. A child screamed again.

Rayz didn’t hesitate. He slammed his shoulder into the door and it burst open. The room was chaos. Terryn’s family huddled in the far corner, Joan clutching the children, Marianna pressed against her mother’s side, Isaac trembling beneath her arm. Vines poured through the window frame and cracks in the walls, curling across the floorboards, climbing the furniture, reaching for the family with slow, deliberate hunger. Rayz charged forward, sword flashing in the dim light. He cut through the first wave of vines, severing tendrils that recoiled and curled like dying serpents. More surged forward to replace them.

“Stay behind me!” Rayz shouted.

Joan pulled the children tighter, her breath ragged. Marianna sobbed into her mother’s shoulder. Isaac stared wide‑eyed at the writhing vines, frozen in terror.

Rayz slashed again, carving a narrow space between the family and the advancing mass. The vines circled him, testing his reach, his timing, his limits. He stepped back, positioning himself between the family and the creeping wall of tendrils.

“We need to move,” Rayz said, voice low and urgent. “Now! Out the door! Stay close!”

Joan nodded shakily. She rose, pulling the children with her. Rayz cut down another cluster, then another. The room felt smaller with every passing second, the vines filling the space like rising water. Rayz backed toward the door, cutting a path as best he could. The vines surged, striking from every angle. He parried, dodged, slashed, his movements sharp and precise, but the vines were endless. Joan reached the doorway first. Then the vines struck. A thick tendril whipped across the floor, coiling around her ankle. She gasped, stumbling. Rayz turned just in time to see her pulled violently off her feet. She hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from her lungs.

“Joan!” Rayz lunged toward her.

But the vines were faster. They swarmed her, dragging her backward across the floor. She clawed at the boards, fingers scraping desperately for purchase. Marianna screamed, reaching for her mother, but Rayz grabbed the girl’s arm and pulled her back.

“Don’t!” he shouted. “Stay behind me!”

Joan’s eyes met his. Wide, terrified, pleading. Her scream tore through the room, raw and desperate, then cut off abruptly as a tendril forced its way across her face, silencing her. Her body jerked once, twice, then went still beneath the writhing mass. Marianna screamed again, a sound so sharp it seemed to split the air. She tried to run to her mother, but a vine lashed out, curling around her waist. Rayz swung his sword, severing it, but another vine struck from behind, wrapping around the girl’s arm and yanking her backward.Rayz reached for the girl, but the vines pulled her into the mass, swallowing her small form in a tangle of tendrils. Her scream faded into the chaos.

Rayz’s breath came fast, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. The room felt like it was collapsing inward, the vines filling every corner, every crack, every inch of space. The air grew thick, suffocating.He forced himself to think. Move. Protect who you can. Isaac. He turned and Isaac stood frozen near the doorway, tears streaming down his face, his small hands trembling. The vines were already creeping toward him, curling across the floor like hungry shadows. Rayz didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, wrapping his free arm around Isaac and pulling the boy tight against his chest. Isaac gasped, burying his face in Rayz’s shoulder.

The vines surged. Rayz slashed at them with his sword, carving a narrow path through the writhing mass. He backed toward the hallway, Isaac clutched tightly in one arm, the other hand gripping his blade. Behind him, the room filled with the sound of splintering wood and the relentless advance of the vines. Rayz didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

Rayz carried Isaac down the stairs as fast as he dared, the boy clinging to him with trembling hands. The manor groaned around them. When Rayz reached the entrance hall, he stopped short. The front doors were no longer visible. A thick, writhing mass of vines had grown over them, sealing the exit beneath layers of pulsing plant matter. The tendrils shifted as Rayz approached, curling upward like serpents sensing prey. Isaac whimpered and buried his face in Rayz’s shoulder. He pivoted and sprinted down the nearest hallway, boots thudding against the floorboards. The corridor was narrow and dim, lined with portraits whose painted eyes seemed to follow him as he ran. Then Rayz felt it. A presence behind him, vast, wrong, and unmistakably aware. He turned and saw Terryn standing at the far end of the hall. Or rather, something wearing Terryn’s face.

The creature was twelve feet tall, its body a grotesque lattice of thick vines woven into the rough outline of a man. It was in Terry’s body, but has stretched out its vines, ripping each limb from its socket. The legs and arms were attached to the torso by two or three feet of braided vine, giving the figure a stretched, disjointed silhouette. The creature ducked beneath the doorway with slow, deliberate precision. The vines creaked as it bent, its elongated frame folding in unnatural angles. Through the entire motion, it never broke eye contact with Rayz. Not once.

Rayz’s breath caught in his throat. Terryn, whatever he had become, straightened to his full, towering height. His vine‑woven limbs twitched, adjusting, tightening. His head tilted slightly, the motion too smooth, too controlled, as though the creature were studying Rayz the way a predator studies a cornered animal.

Isaac clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder. The hallway stretched ahead, long and dim, lit only by the faint moonlight filtering through a single window at the far end. Rayz’s heart hammered in his chest. If I can break that window… if I can get outside… He sprinted toward it, every muscle burning with urgency. Behind him, the vine‑wrought Terryn moved with slow, deliberate steps, each one heavy enough to make the floor tremble. The sound echoed through the hall like distant thunder. The window grew closer. Just a few more steps. He shifted Isaac in his arms, preparing to shield the boy as he crashed through the glass.

Then something yanked Isaac’s leg. Rayz stumbled. Isaac screamed, his small body jerking backward as a vine coiled around his ankle. The tendril tightened, pulling him out of Rayz’s arms with sudden, brutal force. “No!” Rayz lunged, grabbing Isaac’s wrist with his free hand. The boy dangled between them. But more vines surged from the walls.They burst through cracks in the plaster, through gaps in the floorboards, through the seams of the ceiling. They lashed toward Rayz in a frenzy, striking from every direction.Rayz slashed left, then right, cutting down as many as he could while still pulling on Isaac, refusing to give him up. The vines recoiled, but they didn’t stop. They circled him, testing his reach, his timing, his limits.

One vine struck his sword hand. Rayz grunted, twisting away. His fingers spasmed. The sword slipped. It clattered to the floor, skidding across the boards just out of reach.He tightened his hold on Isaac, backing toward the window. The vines dug into his hand, and Rayz could feel them slide against muscle. Behind him, the vine‑wrought Terryn took another slow step forward. The floor trembled. Rayz’s breath came fast and shallow. His mind raced, searching for any plan, any escape, any chance at survival. The window was only a few feet away. If he could reach it. If he could break it. Iif he could get Isaac outside.

A vine wrapped around his ankle.

Rayz stumbled, nearly falling. He kicked at the tendril, but another vine struck his shoulder, spinning him sideways. Isaac cried out, clinging to Rayz’s tunic.

The vines tightened.

Rayz braced himself, pulling Isaac as hard as he could with his left arm. He planted his feet, refusing to let the vines tear the boy away. “Hold on,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Hold on to me.” Isaac screamed as the vines tightened around his leg, dragging him backward with a force far too strong for a child to resist. Rayz clamped his left hand around the boy’s wrist, muscles straining, every tendon in his arm burning as he pulled with everything he had. The floorboards beneath them groaned, dust shaking loose from the ceiling as the vines writhed and coiled like living ropes.

Isaac’s fingers dug into Rayz’s forearm, small and desperate. His face was twisted with terror, tears streaking down his cheeks. The vines pulled harder, jerking him violently. Rayz’s boots slid across the floor, losing traction. Panic clawed at his throat. Isaac’s eyes met his. Wide. Terrified. Trusting. And in that instant, the world seemed to slow. The vines’ movement blurred into a distant, muffled rhythm. The creaking of the manor faded. Even Isaac’s screams softened into something far away. All Rayz could hear was a single word echoing through his mind. Survive. The memory hit him with brutal clarity. Isaac’s small voice asking about the necklace, the way he’d repeated the word with innocent curiosity. Rayz tightened his hold, fingers digging into the boy’s wrist so hard he feared he might bruise him. Isaac’s gaze locked onto his, trembling, pleading. Rayz pulled. The vines pulled harder.

“No—no, no, no—” Rayz’s voice broke as Isaac’s fingers slid against his palm, slick with sweat and fear. He tried to shift his weight, tried to brace his legs, tried to do anything, but the vines on his right hand pulled, forcing him lower, bending him toward the floor with agonizing pain. Isaac’s fingertips brushed Rayz’s, and then slipped away. Rayz lunged forward with a strangled cry, but the vines yanked Isaac backward so violently the boy was ripped from his reach. Isaac’s scream cut through the hallway like a blade as he was dragged into Terryn’s arms

Rayz threw himself forward, but the vines on his right arm jerked him back, slamming his shoulder into the floor. Pain shot through him, white‑hot and blinding. He clawed at the vines with his left hand, but they tightened, constricting, pinning him down. He had failed. The realization hit him harder than any physical blow. His chest tightened, breath shuddering, vision blurring. For a heartbeat, he let the grief wash over him. Rayz twisted his body, forcing his left arm free just enough to reach across the floor. His fingers brushed against his sword. With a roar, he swung upward, slicing through the vines pinning his right hand, now soaking in bood. The tendrils recoiled, writhing violently as they loosened their grip. Rayz tore his arm free, ignoring the pain, ignoring the tremor in his muscles.

Rayz staggered toward the window, his breath ragged, his body shaking from exertion and terror. The vines still writhed behind him, slithering across the floorboards like living shadows searching for his ankles. Isaac’s screams had already faded into the depths of the manor, swallowed by the twisting halls and the monstrous thing that had taken him. With a hoarse cry, he swung the blade at the window. The glass shattered outward in a burst of cold night air and glittering shards. Rayz didn’t hesitate.He climbed through the broken frame, ignoring the sting of glass against his arms, and dropped into the overgrown courtyard below. His knees buckled on impact, but he forced himself upright, clutching his sword as though it were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Behind him, the manor groaned like a wounded beast. The shattered window shuddered, and the vines inside surged outward, curling through the frame with slow, deliberate intent. They did not sway with the wind. They reached. They searched. They followed. Rayz staggered back, his right hand covered with his blood. He didn’t stop to look at it. Pain could wait. The night swallowed him whole, but the land did not feel like night anymore. His boots struck the ground in frantic rhythm, yet every step felt wrong. The soil was softer than it should have been, almost spongy, as if something beneath the surface breathed with him. The grass, what little remained, twitched at the edges of his vision, bending toward him instead of away. Mother had reclaimed her land. And she will not give it back.

This land is no longer ours. “I can never return,” he whispered. “And neither can any man.”

Rayz turned. The giant plant he had seen earlier, once towering, now colossal, loomed beside the manor. Its trunk had thickened into a pillar of twisting bark and pulsing vines. Its branches stretched outward like arms, each one heavy with leaves that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. And in its grasp, held gently yet impossibly tight, was Isaac. The boy hung limp in the plant’s embrace, his small form dwarfed by the massive tendrils coiled around him. His eyes were closed, his face pale, his body still.Its branches curled inward, cradling Isaac closer. The vines along its trunk pulsed, glowing faintly with a sickly green light. The air vibrated with a low hum, like a voice speaking from beneath the earth. Then Rayz heard it. A whisper. “He can now… be awakened.”

The words slithered through the air, vibrating in Rayz’s bones. The plant’s branches tightened around Isaac, lifting him slightly. Smaller tendrils unfurled from the trunk, reaching toward the boy’s face with slow, deliberate intent.The vines brushed Isaac’s cheeks, then curled toward his mouth. They moved with a terrible gentleness. Isaac’s lips parted slightly, his head tilting back in the plant’s grasp. The night swallowed the scene in silence. And the land, Mother’s land, continued to breathe.

Waker

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