「Broken Compass」The Soterice Passages「Passage IV」

Chapter 43

"The Heelia Stone Born of Grain and Blood" 

-Part II-

At length, the water's surface yielded to a drift of petals that settled like overripe peeled fruit skins.

Beneath them writhed a macabre tangle of fibrous roots, twisting and pulsing as though a half‑dead heart beat below.

Abel gripped Fleur's arm with careful firmness. "Stay close," he whispered in a low but resolute voice.

A strange perfume shrouded the bank as they traveled upstream. The scent was overtly sweet, yet tainted like jasmine steeped in rust.

It coated their throats and nostrils, awakening a ceaseless, maddening tingle.

The giant woman lingered behind, unmoved as the siblings passed. 

Abel stole a glance back, but her hair fell in a curtain, obscuring everything from the front.

Fleur looked up at him, brows lifting as the stench spun her head. "Do you ever get the feeling we've stumbled into a necromancer's greenhouse?" she inquired with brittle humor.

Abel managed a ghost of a smile. "If it were mine, I'd be wearing a gas mask by now." 

Fleur extended a cautious hand toward the eldritch flora.

The pale blossoms, tinged with an eerie phosphorescence, closed and opened as though they consumed the very air.

From their midnight-black hearts, obsidian seed pods dropped soundlessly into the water.

Fleur glanced down at her boot. 'Those are likely what clung to my soles.'

A dull flare of light flickered beneath the surface. 

Startled, she jerked back and tugged Abel to the side.

He stared at her, concern etching his features.

"Something lit up under the water," she warned in a rush.

Abel, however, remained unnervingly calm. 

With a faintly teasing tone, he said, "I'm surprised it took you so long to notice. I half-expected you to point it out before me, but didn't want to spoil the surprise."

Fleur tilted her head toward Abel without shifting her shoulders.

Her dark waves cascaded over her arm and slipped down her back.

"Huh…?" she droned dumbfoundedly.

Abel exhaled and said, "Wait for another to fall, then follow where the light leads."

Fleur pursed her lips and refocused ahead.

A hush fell between them until one bloom gently unfolded from the vast canopy and released a single seed with a soft plunk into the water.

Moments of silence passed, and just as Fleur prepared to turn back to Abel, that familiar, muted glow caught her eye again.

It flared, racing through the water like a startled snake.

When it reached the bank, it extinguished, only to surge again, this time trailing through the dark like tangled fungus.

From its path sprouted a slender stem, drooping downward until the light pooled into a tiny orb at its tip.

There it lingered, swelling, as though melting outward, whilst forming a pointed flower lantern that tugged the stem forward.

Fleur ceased her movement, growing swiftly transfixed. 

The metamorphosis of this single pod felt startlingly odd.

Patterns like this were no novelty to her, yet her fascination felt no less urgent.

To Fleur, flowers were libraries unto themselves that each revealed new worlds, even after one had long since grown accustomed to their shelves.

"How beautiful…" she whispered like a gentle tune.

Abel's gaze softened. 

He nudged his foot forward in the shallow water...

Then, as one, their expressions hardened, and they snapped their heads toward the opposite bank.

A high-pitched hum suddenly emanated from somewhere beyond the creek's obscured edge.

"Is someone singing?" Abel inquired with a voice as taut as a drawn bowstring.

Fleur didn't answer immediately. She tilted her head, listening so intently that her lips paled.

"It can't be a normal throat," she finally said, scraping her teeth together..

The humming drew closer.

Abel thrust one foot into the water without taking a proper step. "Fleur!" 

Fleur pretended she hadn't heard him and stared ahead, locking her eyes on the creek's far bank. 

Her throat bobbed with a dry swallow. 

"I think… something might be—" she began.

Before she could finish, a jarring chirr, like stone teeth grinding against textured wood, interjected her mid-sentence.

Across the bank, near a half-rotten log, movement stirred. At first, it appeared the tree had split... but the segmented parts remained suspended. 

They arced outward, rigid and angular.

A narrow limb emerged, jointed and as pale as bleached bone or aged bark. 

It rose limb by limb with the measured delay of a marionette being unpacked from a crate.

Abel squinted. "Is that… a person?"

"I can't tell…" Fleur murmured.

The figure didn't flee. 

It lay curled upon the log, knees drawn high, and arms pressed flat as though welded against the wood.

Then, without a sound beyond the faint rasp of limbs, its torso uncoiled.

Joints grinded in subtle protest; its neck articulated with a decisive click, and its head tilted, drawn upright by some inner contrivance.

Yet even as it straightened, it did not step away. Rather, it remained unnervingly lodged into the timber as an abhorrent mosaic of plant and wood.

Another creak resonated, prying their attention; however, Abel alone pivoted to confront the source.

Behind a tangle of broken wood scraps, a second figure began pushing itself upward from a basin of leaves and mud. 

Moss shed from its back like the residue of eons. 

Its legs unfolded, the shins contorting twice at pronounced, unnatural angles before rattling straight.

A joint slipped into place with a muted pop. 

These constructs folded into corners no one would ever glance toward.

Fleur inhaled slowly, suppressing the tremor of something invisible brushing the nape of her neck. 

Her senses bristled, pendent between mind and instinct.

At first, Abel's eyes betrayed only trickery—gnarled bark, an odd drift of shade. 

Yet as he stared longer, their forms solidified. 

The tall figure's languid limbs hung loosely, much like the prior female specter; human in outline yet driven by a disturbing semblance of independent will.

From beneath its heavy, sealed head-bloom came a solitary moth, its wings brushing the petals in a tremulous kiss.

"Well," Abel said with an astounded expression, "those are not human. It's like someone tucked them away…and whatever made that horrid noise just woke them." 

The hum arose in concentric pulses, aligning with each tilt of a new head. 

Gnarled fingers curled around lanterns, though their glow was absent, leaking only ghostly trails of pollen.

"Don't attack unless they make the first move," Fleur said, her voice level but firm. 

A tacit cord of resolve snapped taut between the two of them.

Abel shifted closer

Fleur's gaze steered from the first figure and mounted to another that was half-emerged from a dead tree's curled root.

Neither she nor Abel had seen them arrive.

A lattice of fibrous sinew draped its body, ornamented with petrified blossoms and ribbons of bark-like silk, that were woven in patterns far too intricate for handcraft. 

Its presence exuded centuries.

"Abel," she murmured without tearing away from the second silhouette. "There are more."

As Abel surveyed the layout, his heartbeat rattled in his chest.

By the creek's bend, a fourth figure emerged among the reeds, a hunched shape with curled, white petals, like a dreaming sea creature half‑buried in vegetation.

Abel pressed a hand to his forehead, as if to steady a world that felt unmoored.

Fleur's voice sounded distant as it wandered in his ears: "… The heelia should be nestled in the hollow of a tree, like the mural showed." She spoke as if anchoring him back to purpose.

"Maybe they're just props?" he ventured, uncertain.

She glanced sidelong at the pale flower‑creature. "Whether props or not, it doesn't change our mission. We find the heelia first. Unless," she paused, with a taut expression, "—they threaten us, we ignore them." She lowered her head, "This place… it feels like it saps life from the air."

Abel's mouth went dry. 

He said nothing and bent toward the creek's dark surface like a child avoiding horrors.

Fleur stood still, but her limbs quivered.

She finally averted her gaze and pressed her brows together as she sloshed forward through detritus-littered water.

A sudden sting on her lower lip drew a flicker of pain. 

She didn't stop but brought her finger hesitantly to the spot where blood welled.

Fleur parted her lips, realizing a slender split at the corner.

She frowned. Did I fall… or was I struck?

Upon gently withdrawing her finger, a small bead of warmth slid down, and she brought it to her sleeve, expecting crimson, but found none. 

Only a curious, faint glimmer hung on her clothes.

She kept her gaze lowered, confusion pinching her pupils before another drop slipped from her lip onto her wrist. 

Instinct prickled through her veins, and she jerked her head upright.

Keeping one hand over the cut, she pressed her sleeve firmly against her wrist and cast a sideways glance through the trees. 

In the phases following, a strange heat unfolded beneath her skin. 

It felt as if something within was knitting itself whole, while the surface grew clammy with the side‑effect of a low fever.

She drew in a slow, measured breath before sealing her eyes into a long blink. 'Hah… maybe it's just the ambient air shifting…' she told herself inwardly as reality steadied. 'I should check on Abel shortly so that he doesn't spiral into panic.' 

She swallowed, attempting to steady her gait, but stumbled nonetheless. 

Abel's voice murmured close behind her: "You're walking oddly."

She shot back with a hint of dry humor in her tone, "I wasn't aware you'd taken up cartography of my steps."

He pressed on, allowing concern to thread into his words. "I don't mean to tease, are you alright? You're walking with a pretty dramatic hunch."

Fleur halted. 

Closing her eyes, she counted the accelerating beats of her heart as an inexplicable surge of panic welled within her. 

When she heard Abel approach the side to step around her, she cleared her throat and lowered her volume, "Just… It's getting hard to breathe."

As she resumed walking, Abel frowned and matched his pace to hers. 

Though he'd sensed the abundance of unusual shifts in the air surrounding them, worry now coiled tighter as he watched her movements.

Then, without warning, he asked again, "Why keep wiping your face? Are you hot?"

She answered coarsely, "I am."

He offered, "I could carry you, if you'd like…"

She said nothing. Just then, both of them stumbled into an anomaly in the pathway ahead. 

Lethargic, Fleur didn't have the energy to rush, but Abel brushed past her, stepping purposefully forward. 

When she caught up, her gaze sharpened at the sight before them:

A large statue rose from the water. Its torso leaned to one side, with outstretched arms and splayed fingers. 

Long legs sealed tightly together, casting the figure the semblance of a sentinel tree. 

Its design imitated the others they had passed, but on a grander scale, with a bloom-like head.

The stiff petals were a tapestry of blues: pale ice at their core, shading to indigo at the edges. 

At the center was a yawning black void.

However, the most perplexing element was the wind chime dangling from its higher‑positioned hand.

It was a curious, exquisite piece with tiny silver cranes, no larger than thimbles.

They hung in mid‑flight from slender threads, orbiting a pale‑green glass clapper held beneath a crown of dark‑stained wood. 

The chimes themselves were long, delicate hollow rods, each polished to a mirror sheen. 

Most intriguing was the little sail at the end; an oval lacquered disc, as black as a beetle wing and painted with a single yellow sphere.

Abel tilted his head, narrowing one eye. "I nearly screamed, thinking it would move." His tone was earnest.

He stepped beneath it and shyly hovered his hand just as though it might nip. 

Overhead, the chime swayed…but stayed a fraction out of reach.

He rose onto the balls of his feet, stretching upward.

"Leave it," Fleur sternly implored.

"Just—hang on a second, I want to see if—"

"Don't touch it."

Her voice wasn't raised, but something in its stir made him pause and glance back.

"I'm not…" he hesitated, then reached out.

His fingers brushed the underside of the clapper.

The sound that followed was instantaneous and impossibly loud for something so small. 

A high-pitched, pure hum burst forth, before splitting into layers that sounded akin to the trembling ring of a glass' rim, that gradually plummeted into the deeper, muffled resonance of a harp string being plucked beneath water.

It was achingly beautiful, yet piercing like the inner workings of a music box unraveling all at once.

The cranes spun on their threads, tiny dancers caught in the wave of sound.

Abel recoiled, shaking his hand as though it had stung. "I think we know where those sounds are coming from…"

Fleur watched the chime with a drawn expression. "It wasn't windy," she murmured. "It only rang when you touched it…"

"Yeah, I noticed."

He turned, pressing his ear as though to listen through the echo still thrumming inside him. "Who…do you think might have touched it before?"

Fleur stepped closer, folding her arms as she examined the sail. 

After a few moments, she caught sight of a tiny cursive engraving at its very edge. 

Squinting, she murmured in perplexity, then rose onto her toes, angling her head to catch the light as it swayed back into view.

"Maercie?"

Before she could ponder further, a loud splash erupted behind them. 

Both spun around, posture stiffening immediately. 

Standing a few paces off was the tall woman from earlier, her head bowed until her hair fell like a curtain across her face. 

The twins stood closely apart, peering back in a daze.

Their words had been torn from their throats by the force of her sudden presence.

Suddenly, a low, sinister creak of shifting timbers reverberated ominously just behind them. 

A chill rippled down Abel's spine. 

And he cast a sharp glance over his shoulder, eyes widening at the half-seen silhouette in the wavering floral glow.

He recoiled with a startled leap as his nerves bristled just under his flesh.

"The statue is moving!" he shouted, alarm lacing his voice.

Fleur's head remained tethered to the woman. 

She firmly spoke to Abel, "Don't worry, it's just one of her garden marionettes."

Abel blinked, confusion clouding his features. "Her… what? Did you have a reverent?"

Fleur nodded subtly. "Mm. Her name is Maerc—"

At that moment, an elderly woman's voice rang out, sounding simultaneously distant, yet unmistakably close:

"Darling girl." It called once.

Then twice, "Darling girl." 

"What did you say?" Abel asked, evidently unaware of the voice was not his own.

Fleur's eyes widened; her mouth parted slowly as her hand slipped further from her shoulder.

Her voice escaped in a hollow breath. "Mamie…"

Abel flinched and decisively whisked away from the statue to Fleur's face. 

A sharp pang tightened his chest… before everything fell into eerie silence.

Abel's pupils shrank to pinpricks. 

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, as if his mind recoiled from a long-buried memory that had surged to the surface in a single flash.

With desperate urgency, he gripped her shoulder and spun her to face him. 

In that instant, their gazes locked, disbelief had become distinguishable on both of their visages.

Abel's complexion drained to ash. 

He could manage only a stifled gasp, as if his throat were gripped by invisible fingers, while he fought to steady the tremor in his heart.

His eyes darted over her features in rapid succession.

However, the familiar warmth in her gaze had slipped away, supplanted by a freezing emptiness that settled deep in his chest.

Suddenly, he noticed a pale, formless stain at the corner of her lips, glinting like ivory kissed by frost.

"Hey…" His voice fractured mid-word.

A dry swallow rattled in his throat, his Adam's apple bumping painfully as dread took shape. "What… what's happening to you?"

Fleur's lips twitched, scarcely parting, but not a single note escaped. 

Instead, a gossamer wisp of crimson drifted from her mouth and lingered in the air for a heartbeat before tumbling into the thick water below.

In that instant, the vibrant petals carpeting the surface curled and withered, collapsing like black-flaked snow as they sank. 

The water darkened and pooled into an ink-black mass.

To be continued…