**Kelly Thompson's POV**
The fortress isn’t a sanctuary—it’s a *cage*.
The black oak’s roots coil around the crystalline walls like serpents, their thorns dripping a viscous sap that smells of Eden’s blood. The Forgotten have carved their homes into the tree’s flesh, their laughter echoing through hollow chambers where the Hunter’s heartbeat thrums beneath the floorboards. I avoid those rooms. The sound is too much like a dirge.
The leader of the Forgotten—she calls herself **Veyra** now—has taken to wearing a cloak woven from the oak’s leaves. They hiss as she walks, whispering secrets even the static can’t decipher. She finds me at dawn, her scarred throat bobbing as she forces words through ruined vocal cords. “The western grove… rejects the Seed. The ground… bleeds.”
I strap the storm-gun to my back. “Show me.”
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**The Wound**