Embers of Choice

The earth groaned like a dying beast, its voice shuddering through the Ashen Fields. Cracks split the ground, jagged and hungry, spewing tendrils of black mist that coiled upward like skeletal fingers grasping for the sky.

Villagers scattered, their screams swallowed by the thunderous roar beneath their feet.

A child stumbled, his knee scraping the sludge-gray soil. Blood welled—bright crimson against the ashen waste—before his mother yanked him up, her face pale as bleached bone. Her fingers trembled as she clutched him, her gaze darting to the woods where the trees thrashed as though caught in a storm no one else could see.

Elara stood at the edge of the chaos, her teal-streaked hair whipping in the sudden, frigid wind. Her black robe billowed like a storm cloud, its edges shimmering faintly with the same starlit threads that bound the Veil.

She pressed a translucent hand to Kael's chest, where the Thorned Prince's shadow had struck him. His skin burned beneath her touch, feverish and clammy, the veins beneath his collarbone spidering outward in inky black tendrils.

"Look at me," she pleaded, her voice barely rising above the cacophony.

Kael's eyelids fluttered, his breath shallow and uneven. "Cold… so cold…"

Sorin skidded to their side, his satchel slapping against his hip as he dropped to his knees. He ripped open Kael's shirt, exposing the wound—a pulsing, ink-black star etched into his flesh. The edges writhed like living shadows. Sorin cursed under his breath, his usual smirk replaced by a grimace. "Damn. This isn't just poison. It's a seed."

Veyra crouched beside him, flames flickering nervously at her fingertips. The firelight deepened the scars on her arms, making them gleam like molten copper. "Can you cut it out?"

"Not without carving out half his ribs." Sorin rummaged through his satchel, pulling out a vial of murky liquid that sloshed like thickened blood. "Hold him down."

Kael's body jerked as Sorin poured the concoction onto the wound. The liquid hissed, emitting a sharp, acrid smell like burnt hair. His back arched off the ground, a guttural cry tearing from his throat. His hands clawed at the dirt, fingernails gouging furrows into the soil.

"Stop!" Elara seized Sorin's wrist, her corrupted hand glowing faintly. The contact sent a jolt through both of them—a flash of Sorin's memory:

a younger Veyra screaming as flames consumed a cottage, his hands raw from dragging her free. Elara recoiled, her voice trembling. "You're hurting him."

Sorin yanked his arm back, his jaw tightening. "Pain's part of the process, Witchling. Unless you've got a better idea?"

Veyra's fire flared, casting jagged shadows across her face. "We don't have time for this. The whole village is—"

A roar echoed from the woods, drowning her words. Trees splintered, their roots snapping like cannonfire. The ground buckled, and a fissure tore through the center of the square, swallowing the festival's thorny effigy whole.

"..."

The Mother's voice seeped through the cracks in the earth, syrupy and venomous.

"Elara… my daughter… come home."

In the square, the villagers' abandoned effigy twitched. Thorny vines burst from its chest, lashing out like serpents. One impaled a fleeing man through the shoulder, lifting him off his feet. He hung suspended, his blood sizzling as the vines drank greedily, their thorns swelling crimson. His scream died as his body withered, skin collapsing like parchment.

Old Marl limped toward the well, his void-eyed grin stretching unnaturally wide. The cane in his hand—carved from a human femur—tapped rhythmically against the cobblestones. "She comes! The Mother of Rot, the Weaver of Flesh! Rejoice!"

His words dissolved into a wet gurgle as a tendril of shadow slithered from his mouth. The villagers who hadn't fled froze, their faces slack with dread. A woman clutched her infant closer, her tears cutting tracks through the ash on her cheeks.

"..."

The catacombs beneath the church throbbed with green flame.

Sorin and Veyra had retreated here hours earlier, seeking refuge, only to find something worse. The cultists' chants reverberated off the skull-lined walls, their voices merging into a dissonant hymn.

At the center of the chamber, the Mother's corpse stood upright, roots coiled around her limbs like puppeteer's strings. The shadow within her chest cavity pulsed, spilling tendrils of smoke that snaked across the floor.

Lira, the flower girl, stepped forward, her small hands trembling as she offered a bouquet of wilted roses. Her eyes, once bright with innocence, were now glassy and distant.

"Blessed is the rot," the shadow crooned through the corpse's lipless mouth.

Lira's fingers blackened as she held the flowers, the petals crumbling to dust. The thorns on the stems writhed, burrowing into her palms. She didn't scream. She didn't move.

Veyra's fire sputtered. "We need to stop this."

Sorin gripped his dagger, the blade glinting in the eerie light. "We need to survive."

"..."

Elara pressed her forehead to Kael's, their shared breath mingling in the frigid air. The bond between them flickered like a dying candle, fraying at the edges.

Show me how to save him.

The Veil's threads responded, weaving a vision: Kael stood whole and smiling in a sunlit meadow, his hands clean of blood, his eyes free of shadows. But beneath the image lurked a darker truth—a figure with antlers grinned from the periphery, offering a dagger crusted with dried blood.

"A life for a life," the Thorned Prince whispered, his voice slithering through her mind. "His… or yours."

Elara recoiled, the vision shattering. Her hands trembled, the corruption in her veins throbbing in time with Kael's labored breaths.

"Elara?" Kael's fingers brushed hers, cold and clammy. "What… what did you see?"

She forced a smile, her teal eyes bright with unshed tears. "Nothing. Rest. We'll fix this."

He didn't believe her. She could feel it through the bond—a low, steady hum of doubt, tinged with fear.

"..."

Veyra cornered Sorin in the church nave, her flames casting his face in sharp relief. The stained-glass windows—depictions of thorn-crowned saints—shattered as another tremor rocked the village.

"The cure's not working," she hissed.

Sorin avoided her gaze, grinding dried herbs in a mortar with unnecessary force. The scent of lavender and rot filled the air. "I need time."

"We don't have time!" Embers sparked in her braids, the red ribbons woven through them smoldering. "Tell me the truth. Can you save him?"

Silence.

"Sorin! "

He slammed the mortar onto the altar, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "No! Happy? The poison's part of him now. Only the Mother can undo it."

Veyra's flames died, leaving them in near-darkness. Her voice softened, barely audible. "Then we're screwed."

Sorin's shoulders slumped. He pulled a locket from his pocket—a twin to Kael's, but tarnished and cracked. "My sister… the cult took her. Same way they'll take him if we don't end this."

Veyra stared at the locket, her scars itching. "We'll end it."

"..."

Elara wandered the Gloomshade, the dense trees closing in around her like a cage. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in fractured beams, illuminating patches of fungus that glowed faintly blue. The air hummed with the whispers of the Veil, threads of gold and silver flickering at the edge of her vision.

A shadow detached from a tree—Lyra, her hooded form translucent, her teal eyes burning like drowned stars.

"You hesitate," Lyra said, her voice echoing as though from the bottom of a well. "Why?"

Elara's fingers tightened around her mother's ribbon, the fabric frayed and stained. "You know why."

"The boy." Lyra drifted closer, her ghostly hand brushing the ribbon. "Love is a luxury. The Veil demands sacrifice."

"You sound like the Thorned Prince."

"We are not so different, he and I." Lyra's gaze drifted to the village. "We both know what it is to be trapped. To hunger."

Elara's nails dug into her palms, the pain sharp and grounding. "What if I can't choose?"

Lyra's form flickered, the shadows around her deepening. "Then you will die. And the Veil dies with you."

"..."

In the forge, Kael writhed on a makeshift cot, sweat drenching the thin sheet beneath him. The shadow in his chest pulsed rhythmically, its whispers seeping into his mind.

"Let me in," it murmured, its voice velvet and sweet. "I'll make the pain stop. I'll make you strong."

Kael gritted his teeth, his vision swimming. "Go… to hell…"

"You're already there."

The shadow spread, tendrils curling around his ribs, probing deeper. Memories surfaced—his father's fist, his mother's hollow eyes, the locket hidden beneath the floorboards.

"They feared you," the shadow crooned. "But I see your worth. Together, we could rule this rotting world."

Kael's hand fumbled for the dagger beneath his pillow. The blade glinted, reflecting his face—pale, gaunt, eyes ringed with shadows.

"Do it," the shadow urged. "Cut the poison out."

His hand trembled.

"..."

Dawn brought no relief. The Blackroot River churned, its waters thick with the corpses of fish, their scales sloughing off like rotten petals. Villagers huddled in the church, their whispers frantic.

"The well's gone dry!"

"The Gloomshade's moving—the trees uprooted the graveyard!"

"She's coming… she's coming…"

A scream cut through the panic.

Lira stood in the doorway, her mouth stretched impossibly wide. Thorny vines erupted from her throat, her void eyes streaming black tears. The villagers scattered, overturning pews in their desperation.

Sorin dragged Veyra behind the altar. "We need to go. Now."

Veyra's flames ignited, her scars glowing like molten iron. "Not without Elara."

"..."

Elara found Kael on the forge's roof, staring at the horizon where the Mother's silhouette loomed. The bond between them thrummed, his fear a bitter tang on her tongue.

"You shouldn't be up here," she said softly.

He laughed weakly, the sound ending in a cough. "You said falling won't kill you."

She sat beside him, their shoulders brushing. The village below was a nightmare—fires raged, shadows writhed, and the air reeked of decay.

"Sorin tried," Kael said, staring at his blackened hands. "Veyra's… Veyra."

"We'll find another way."

"Will we?" He touched the shadow beneath his skin, his voice breaking. "It talks to me. Says I could be strong. A king."

Elara's breath hitched. "Don't listen."

"Easy for you to say." He turned to her, his eyes bloodshot. "You're not the one rotting."

She reached for him, her fingers grazing his cheek—

The ground quaked, and the Mother emerged.

Her body was a grotesque tapestry of root and flesh, thorns blooming into weeping eyes that dripped black sludge. Moss-green skin stretched over a skeletal frame, and her crown of antlers dripped venom that sizzled where it struck the earth. The stench of rot rolled off her in waves, wilting the grass beneath her clawed feet.

"Daughter," she crooned, her voice echoing from a dozen throats. "Come home."

Elara's pendant burned, its heat searing her chest. "I'm not yours."

"Aren't you?" The Mother's laugh shook the sky. "Look."

The Veil tore open, revealing Lyra's ghost—and thousands like her, Weavers bound in thorny chains, their faces twisted in silent screams.

"Your sisters. Your legacy. Join us."

Kael staggered to his feet, his dagger clutched in a white-knuckled grip. "Don't…"

The Thorned Prince's shadow coiled around him, whispering. "Choose, Weaver."

Elara met Kael's gaze—and stepped forward.