Maw of Beasts
Back in the Enclave Heartwood, alarms were already echoing through corridors and minds alike.
Warden Lorin, making a personal follow-up inspection of the Deep Observation Cell after the minor network alert Riven had triggered, found the heavy door slightly ajar, the energy lock displaying indicative signs of harmonic disruption. The cell was empty. Lorin's fingers trembled as he tapped rapidly on his comm device:
"ALARM! CONTAINMENT BREACH – DOC-7!" The urgent message flashed through the network, dispatched directly to the Chamber of Elders and primary security hubs.
Within moments, the regulated atmosphere of the Enclave core shifted dramatically. Lockdown protocols activated in synchronized waves: internal sector doors sealed with heavy sounds echoing down sterile halls. Warden patrols doubled, their Locus Heart signatures flaring as they established tighter security grids.
In the solemn quiet of the Chamber of Elders, the air itself vibrated with controlled power and profound concern. Elder Rowan, whose lichen-like Mark drew in the chamber's light, studied a shimmering energy projection displaying the breach analysis.
Across from him, Root-Speaker Thorn sat impassively; the very roots forming his carved seat writhed almost imperceptibly as he regarded the unfolding crisis.
"Counter-resonance," Rowan stated, his voice a dry whisper, echoing in the vaulted chamber. "The energy pattern used to disrupt the lock… it is complex—unfamiliar, and yet it contains principles found in the Dampening Theory scrolls."
Slowly, Thorn's ancient eyes opened. "He learns quickly. Faster than any of us anticipated," came his measured reply, as if weighing centuries of wisdom in his tone. "And tell me—the direction?"
"Initial dispersal suggests westward, towards the Terminus exit," Rowan confirmed, fingers drumming on the table. "He has likely vanished into the outer perimeter already."
"Unacceptable," declared Thorn flatly, his voice resonating with the gravity of millennia. "His instability, paired with that unusual Resonance with the sky, leaves him loose within the wild wood—a beacon for dissonance. He endangers not only himself but also risks disrupting the delicate balance of the Great Root."
At that moment, the chamber door opened, and Tender Elmsa stepped inside—her face pale yet composed.
Thorn's gaze sharpened. "Tender Elmsa, your charge has escaped his containment. Explain yourself."
With a respectful bow, Elmsa's voice was measured: "Root-Speaker, Elders—I report that his outward state appears stable. He practices recovery meditations and studies basic theory, as instructed. He even requested access to historical scrolls... I saw no immediate sign of a breakdown."
Rowan interjected, his tone laced with cold scepticism. "His 'stability' was clearly deceptive. He utilized principles from the advanced scroll—your very own approval, Tender."
Elmsa met his implication with quiet resolve.
"That was a calculated risk, as approved by the Elders, to gauge his response to complex theory. His escape may have been successful, but his depleted Essence can hardly sustain his abilities for long." She allowed herself a fleeting look of concern, disguising her worry behind formal duty.
Thorn silenced further debate with a measured wave of his hand. "The past is water under the roots. The present, however, demands our action. Seal every peripheral exit. Deploy Alpha-level Warden tracking teams—recall Borin's unit from their approach to the Crags immediately. Redirect them west, and utilize every Resonance Tracker keyed to his last known stable signature, however faint it might be. Maximum discretion is paramount. Let nothing of this breach leave the Inner Circle. His very nature must remain a secret." His gaze turned pointedly toward Elmsa. "You, Tender, know his patterns better than any. You understand the echoes to which he responds. Coordinate with Borin's team and recover him at once. The integrity of the Enclave—and perhaps the balance of the Great Root—depends upon his return."
Elmsa bowed her head in agreement and gave a measured response, "As the Elders command."
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Back in the wilderness, Riven knew nothing of those high-level deliberations going on in the enclave.
The shimmering energy of the Enclave barrier faded behind him like a bad dream, instantly replaced by the oppressive weight of the wild Umbralwood.
Riven leaned heavily against the rough bark of a colossal blackwood tree, drawing in desperate breaths of air thick with the scent of primal decay, damp earth, and alien pollens. The carefully managed harmony of the heartwood was gone—here, the cacophony of unseen life and the crushing silence of ancient indifference reigned supreme.
His Essence, severely depleted by his daring escape, felt like a shallow pool within him, the tumultuous storm reduced to uneasy ripples. The star-scarred Marks, usually a source of restless energy, now lay numb and cold against his skin.
'Freedom… but it tastes like fear and cold, damp air,' he thought bitterly, a tremor of relief and trepidation running down his spine.
He could not linger near the Western Flow Terminus. The sensor alert from the lock, the unmistakable signal of a barrier breach—the discovery was inevitable and likely imminent. With grim determination, Riven pushed himself away from the ancient tree, forcing his weary limbs into motion.
'I must move—anything but here,' he muttered internally, each step becoming a silent vow to escape the inevitable hunt.
His chosen direction was west, deeper into the uncharted territories far removed from the Enclave's core influence. The fragment of the old map stored in his mind offered little guidance in these wild lands, marking the region only with ominous warnings: "Primal Growth" and "Unstable Root Zones." It was as if the words themselves were a caution to all who dared enter this realm.
He stumbled through tangled undergrowth, sharp thorns tearing at his simple tunic, unseen roots tripping his steps. Towering trees—far older and more gnarled than any found near the heartwood—formed a dense canopy that swallowed nearly all light from the Shattered Sky above.
The forest floor was a treacherous tapestry of slick moss, decaying leaves, and strange, pallid fungi that pulsed with a ghostly light—an eerie luminescence that offered little comfort in the deep gloom.
The strange chittering of unseen insects, the distant roar of something large challenging the twilight, and the constant sound of water dripping from immense heights filled his ears. His Enclave training offered a theory on these phenomena, but in the raw wilderness of the Umbralwood, practical defence against such overwhelming uncertainty was scarce.
Survival instincts—perhaps echoes of his human blood or born of pure desperation—urged him onward. He first sought water. Not far from where the undergrowth thickened, Riven discovered a slow-moving stream. The water, black in the dim light as it flowed over smooth stones, beckoned him.
Recalling Elmsa's lessons, he closed his eyes and focused his depleted Essence toward the stream. He sensed its chill and heaviness but noted with relief that it lacked the sharp, acrid tang of Mana taint or the warning stench of common fungal poisons.
"At last a moment of relief," he whispered, drinking cautiously, then deeply, as he refilled the small waterskin.
With water secured, his next priority was distance and concealment. Westward he pressed, weaving between giant tree trunks and slipping into the deepest shadows where the wild light of the Umbralwood was at its faintest.
As he moved, he could sense the Great Root network here—vast, slow, and ponderous like the thoughts of ancient mountains. The Enclave's immediate awareness might not extend strongly into these primordial zones, but the Root itself seemed to register his presence—a solitary spark amid its endless, murmuring tide.
"They can't track me in here," Riven spoke, revealing his trail of thoughts, though a part of him feared that this very unknown resonance might betray him eventually.
Putting those thoughts aside, he moved, fueled by adrenaline and the chilling certainty of pursuit. Every step was a quiet battle against exhaustion and the gnawing dread of pursuit.
.
.
.
The gloom in the Umbralwood deepened as night fell, a night marked by the persistent drip of unknown water and the chilling dampness that seeped into his bones. Exhaustion weighed upon him, and he finally found a semblance of shelter: a narrow, deep fissure running down the side of a moss-covered rock face.
It was partially concealed by thick fronds of phosphorescent, vine-like fungi that cast an eerie, shifting green light. Though the opening was narrow and reeked of wet stone and a faint, unpleasant odour, it offered vital concealment from any pursuers.
Riven squeezed into the cramped space and collapsed onto the cold stone floor. Pulling his cloak tighter, he allowed a moment for his pounding heart to slow. His Essence, dangerously low, barely provided enough warmth as he tried to assess his Marks—they remained frustratingly numb, the source of his power lying dormant.
With trembling fingers, he fumbled in his pocket and withdrew the ironwood charm. Its familiar, solid texture was a small anchor in this alien environment. Clutching it tightly, he closed his eyes and attempted to summon even a tiny spark of controlled Working Mana—a spark that could warm his body or shine a tiny light in the oppressive dark.
GRRRNNKK!
Before he could steady his inner thoughts, a low, guttural snarl shattered the stillness. Riven's eyes snapped open. A dreadful sound emanated from right outside the fissure's narrow entrance.
Heavy, snuffling breaths disturbed the hanging vines, and as he peered through a gap in the moss, his blood ran cold. Two pairs of multifaceted, glowing red eyes bore into him from the darkness beyond.
Skreee-scrape.
The rank, musky odour of a predator filled the air, and the sound of claws scraping against stone confirmed his worst fears.
It was a mature Grave-Root Snapper, a creature as territorial as it was aggressive. Its bony plates and formidable tusks shone dully in the meagre fungal light. The beast lowered its massive head, locking those glowing eyes on the narrow fissure entrance, and then it let out an ear-splitting roar that vibrated through the stone.
Panic seized Riven. Trapped in the narrow gap, utterly depleted and with his power nearly inert, he realized with a sinking dread that the Snapper had found him. There was no chance for flight—if he moved, its massive bulk might force its way in.
"Stay calm, Riven," he urged himself in a trembling whisper. Fear overpowered his control. He was bound to be afraid, as in all those past years, he was never alone, let alone in the wilderness.
"Remember Elmsa's training. Think—act."
Instinct took over. He threw up his hands, desperately trying to channel even a fraction of the chaotic surge that he usually suppressed.
The small, silver spark—barely more than a flicker of mana began to condense. But by that time, the beast was upon him. The creature charged into the fissure's mouth, blocking out the already dim light with its hulking form and snapping jaws.
Riven's heart hammered in his ears. He had no choice but to confront this threat with every ounce of his dwindling power and resolve.
In a burst of sheer will, he hurled himself backwards, crashing against the cold stone wall behind him. Pain lanced through his side, but the focus was clear: survival.
'I cannot let it end like this.' he thought, his voice barely audible even to himself.
For one agonizing moment, the world seemed to pause. The beast's heavy footsteps reverberated outside, and Riven's mind raced—memories of the Enclave's harsh discipline flashed alongside the raw promise of freedom he had tasted only moments before.
Every rule, every strategy he had ever learned came crashing together in a single, desperate bid for life.
Then, in a whisper of internal resolve as fleeting as the spark he summoned, Riven roared silently. His call was not one of noise but of raw, defiant energy—a proclamation that even in his weakened state, he was not finished.
In that claustrophobic darkness, the creature's snarl deepened as it advanced—but Riven's eyes flashed with a determination that defied his exhaustion, even as the beast loomed mere inches away.