Chapter 18 – The Hollow Roots Beneath

The morning air was unnaturally still.

No breeze rustled the canopy, and even the usual hum of the garden seemed subdued. Elliot stood barefoot in the dew-drenched soil, eyes tracing the outline of the Heartroot Tree. The trunk, once vibrant and firm, had developed thin lines—like veins of ash creeping along its surface.

"Lyra…" he called gently.

She appeared from between the rows of Buffblooms, brushing stray petals from her hair. "You feel it too."

He nodded. "Something's wrong. It's like the garden's heartbeat is… faltering."

They had returned from their short venture outside the garden three days ago. Since then, everything had felt slightly off. The Glowshrooms dimmed earlier at dusk. The Thornlash Vines twitched without provocation. And most notably, the dreams had stopped.

The Heartroot no longer reached into Elliot's sleep with warmth or reassurance.

Instead, there was a pulsing silence—like a warning held between breaths.

"I found this," Lyra said quietly, opening her palm. A seed, small and blackened with veins of silver, pulsed once with faint energy. "It was buried under the Scorchleaf patch, hidden in a bundle of dead roots. I think it came from outside."

Elliot took the seed carefully. It was cold—colder than the morning air had any right to be.

"We shouldn't have brought anything back," he murmured.

Lyra looked away. "We didn't… at least, not intentionally. But something followed us. Or maybe we woke something that had been dormant."

They stood there in the quiet, the garden around them breathing shallowly.

—

Later that day, they began testing.

Elliot planted the corrupted seed in a pot layered with purified Hearthroot soil, shielding it within a circle of Glowshroom clusters. Lyra stood by, arms folded, her aura tense and golden like the edge of sunrise.

"I'll keep it asleep," she said. "If it starts to react, we burn it."

But the seed remained still. Inert.

Until the moon rose.

That night, the dreams returned—but they weren't like before.

Elliot saw not warmth, but tunnels—root-lined and endless. Hollow voices whispered through them, repeating his name in a dozen intonations. A shape moved beyond the reach of his vision: long-limbed, skinned in bark, with empty sockets where eyes should be. It didn't attack. It simply watched.

And when he woke, the pot had cracked.

The seed had vanished.

—

Chapter 18 continued the tension. A mystery bloomed in the heart of their sanctuary. They didn't speak at breakfast, only exchanged glances and subtle signs.

When they checked the outer perimeter, the Thornlash vines were curled tight—as if bracing. The Glowshrooms had begun to cluster around the Heartroot Tree without prompting, their bioluminescence flickering in a strange pattern.

"What if something's growing under the garden?" Lyra whispered.

Elliot didn't answer at first. Then he pointed to the far west edge—near the ancient stone well they had never managed to restore.

"Then we follow the roots."

They descended into the well just before dusk, lanterns made from suspended Glowshroom caps illuminating the descent. The air was damp, thick with moss and memory.

At the base, they found what looked like a tunnel. Old. Carved not by hands, but by something organic. Roots lined the walls like veins. Some glowed faintly, others recoiled from the light.

They stepped inside.

—

Hours passed in that hollow underworld.

The deeper they went, the more distorted the garden's pulse became. Plants they had never seen before dotted the edges—grey fungi with eyes, thin reeds that breathed mist. It wasn't hostile, not yet, but it was undeniably watching them.

"I think this is what the Heartroot was hiding," Elliot said, voice low.

"Not hiding," Lyra corrected. "Protecting us from."

Then they found the chamber.

At the center lay a massive, petrified tree stump—blackened and cracked, like it had been struck by lightning in some ancient war. Around it, hundreds of seed pods pulsed faintly, embedded into the walls.

And hanging above it all, suspended in a lattice of dead roots, was a shape they couldn't quite see clearly—only the feeling it left behind.

Grief.

Terrible, endless grief.

Lyra reached for Elliot's hand. "We should leave."

But the roots behind them had already begun to shift.