The new world

**Kelly Thompson's POV**

The new world isn’t just alive—it’s *hungry*.

Crystalline trees shiver as we pass, their songlike hums sharpening into dissonant shrieks when the Hunter’s shadow grazes their roots. Rivers of liquid memory churn with faces I don’t recognize—soldiers, lovers, children—all mouthing silent accusations. The static in my veins, once a familiar storm, now writhes like a caged thing, repelled by the Worldseed’s invasive pulse.

The Hunter walks ahead, his crow-feather coat frayed at the edges, his grip tight on a revolver reloaded with shards of the Cradle’s lightning. He hasn’t spoken since we buried Eden. Grief suits him poorly; it makes him reckless.

“We should’ve stayed at the oak,” I say, breaking the silence that’s grown teeth.

He doesn’t turn. “That tree’s a grave. Graves attract scavengers.”