Story 1047: Descendants of Rot

When the apocalypse came, it wasn’t with fire or flood. It came with roots—black, gnarled, and pulsing with ancient hunger.

Deep beneath the ruined cities, the earth itself had soured. Spores of a forgotten god, buried long ago, stirred in the marrow of the dead. Trees began to twist. Grass grew black. And in the villages left untouched by fire or war, children began to change.

They called them the Descendants of Rot.

In the forgotten valley of Greywhistle, nestled among sickened hills and swaying fungal trees, a child named Aelin was born.

Her skin bore the hue of moss. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark. Vines coiled in her hair like living thoughts. She didn’t cry when born. She only stared at her mother with wide, ancient eyes.

And outside the house, the crops withered.

The villagers whispered, as villagers always do.

“She’s one of them.”

“A plague child.”

“Burn her now or we all rot.”