The Root Wakes
The Circle burned behind him.
The sound of cracking stone rang out like gunfire through the sanctuary. Screams from the Hollow Ones echoed in every corner—jagged, shrill, inhuman. And at the eye of the storm stood Lira, wrapped in a cocoon of swirling shadow, her body swaying like a marionette strung between two worlds.
But Cuco didn't scream.
He ran, the Rootbound Tome clutched tight in his arms, heart pounding like a war drum. His boots skidded across the fractured floor, dust clouding the air, ash settling in his lashes.
He dropped to his knees and flung the book open.
The moment his fingers touched the cover, it hissed—a wet, living sound, like the exhale of something roused too soon.
Vines recoiled from the book's spine, curling back as if they sensed the urgency. The pages turned on their own, riffling in a blur until they stopped—
On one.
It glowed.
Ink shimmered across the parchment as if alive, symbols warping and writhing. Cuco couldn't read them.
But something in him could.
His mark ignited with golden fire, casting a warm, wild light over the page. The glyphs rose from the parchment, hovering midair, reshaping—not into words, but into memory. Not a spell of syllables, but of pain. Of sacrifice. Of blood.
A voice rang through his mind.
Ancient.
Ravenous.
> "You are not the lock," it whispered.
"You are the seed."
Cuco arched back, lips torn in a silent scream as light surged through his veins. His hands struck the broken floor.
And the Circle answered.
Roots erupted from the cracks—thick, gnarled, glowing. They twisted upward, ripping through stone like paper, climbing toward the vaulted ceiling like arms reaching for heaven. They struck fast, snaring Hollow Ones mid-scream, binding them in pulsing coils of wood. Their cries turned to gurgles as the roots tightened.
Lira turned.
The shadows around her hissed and snapped in fury—
But the roots reached her, too.
Only… differently.
They didn't strike.
They embraced.
A dozen vines circled gently around her arms, her waist, her trembling shoulders. Light flickered softly over her skin.
And for a moment—
Just a breath—
Her eyes cleared.
Soft and startled, she looked at him.
"Cuco?" she whispered—
so small, so her, it cracked something open in his chest.
He stepped toward her.
But the book flipped again.
And this time—it screamed.
Not into the air.
Into him.
A thousand voices crushed into one jagged thought:
> Arturo.
His father's name exploded in his mind like a curse.
Cuco staggered as his mark began to change. The spiral at its center unwound, curling outward like a doorway. The light from the Tome shifted—from gold to red, pulsing hot and slow.
And then—
The vision took him.
Not memory.
Prophecy.
A tree loomed before him—colossal, dead, its bark blackened like ash. Its roots sprawled across a plain of bones, twisted and endless. Its branches stretched into a starless sky, and from them hung the Dreamers—
Tariq.
Nox.
Isabela.
Motionless. Drained. As if harvested and left to rot.
And beneath that tree—
A door.
Jagged. Open.
And within it—
Himself.
But not.
This Cuco smiled with lips cold as frost. His eyes shimmered with the same red light that pulsed from the gate.
Watching.
Waiting.
And then—
Cuco came back.
Gasping.
The Circle had fallen into silence.
The Hollow Ones were gone—dissolved into shadow or fled to deeper dark. The air still trembled, but the worst had passed.
Around him, the others stared.
Not in fear.
In awe.
In uncertainty.
In something that hadn't existed before.
Isabela stepped forward, blade drawn but lowered. Her gaze was sharp. Measuring.
"What did you do?" she asked.
Cuco rose slowly, the Tome now closed in his hands.
His voice was quiet. Steady. No longer unsure.
> "I didn't open the gate," he said.
He looked down at the mark still glowing faintly on his skin.
> "I woke something else."