Chapter 94: Roots of Return
Dawn filtered through the slatted windows, casting golden fingers across the worn floorboards of Mira's cottage. Her newborn son stirred quietly in her arms, his skin still soft with sleep. But something drew Mira's gaze—the faint, root-shaped mark on his left shoulder, barely visible, but undeniably glowing. It pulsed, like something alive beneath the skin.
Her breath caught.
She dared not speak.
But she wasn't the only one who noticed.
At the doorway, the elder midwife stood frozen, her wrinkled eyes narrowing. She bowed her head slightly and turned away, her steps urgent. Mira's heart pounded in her chest.
---
Elara and Ariella sat beneath the council tree when the whispers reached them.
"A root-shaped scar?" Ariella murmured, eyes widening. "But that's only found—"
"—on those linked to the force beneath the earth," Elara finished, her voice low, hesitant. "But the child was just born…"
"Was he?" Ariella asked, suspicion clouding her tone.
Before they could continue, a sudden shiver ran through the air. The leaves overhead rustled—not with wind, but with warning.
Back at Mira's cottage, black tendrils unfurled from the corners of the house like spiders emerging from hidden lairs. They slithered quietly, soundlessly, with only a faint hissing whisper. Mira didn't notice. She was too busy nursing her child. But the baby did.
His eyes, wide and strangely alert, followed the tendrils as they crept up the walls and converged on the thatched roof. There, they merged—snaking toward the center—and then paused, their tips pointing straight down toward him, as if drawn by some invisible gravity.
The child did not cry.
He merely stared.
---
By midday, the village square trembled with chaos. Word had spread too fast—carried on the lips of the midwife, then confirmed by those who claimed to see the tendrils from a distance. Now, the villagers shouted at Mira, their fear louder than reason.
"He's a vessel!"
"He'll bring ruin to us all!"
"Elara, Ariella, say something! You've seen signs before!"
"We… we aren't sure yet," Elara said, stepping forward, her brow furrowed. "Let us investigate first. What you saw—it could've been coincidence or illusion."
"There were tendrils on the roof!" someone shouted.
"We saw none," Ariella added. "When we arrived, nothing was there."
"We lifted the child—there were no markings!" another insisted. "Gone, like they were never there!"
But their pleas fell on deaf ears. The villagers had already made up their minds. The ancient fear had returned, and it now had a name—vessel.
---
The village council convened within the circle of stones. Mira stood at the center, clutching her baby tightly, eyes rimmed red with desperation.
"Please," she said hoarsely. "Please don't do this. He's my son. My child, not some monster!"
An elder leaned forward, beard trembling with unease. "We don't condemn the child out of cruelty. But we remember the last time—when signs were ignored, and the land paid the price."
A younger woman, perhaps Mira's friend, stepped forth. "At least let him be tested."
"Yes," Elara interjected. "Let the child be taken to the Crevice and tested by its guardian. If he passes, there should be no cause for exile."
There was murmuring among the crowd.
The decision was reluctant—but granted.
---
The journey to the Crevice was solemn. A towering rift carved by ancient forces, it hissed with unseen winds. The guardian appeared as mist at first, then shaped into a hulking figure of tangled bark and bone, with eyes that shimmered like molten silver.
"What is your desire?" the guardian asked, voice rumbling like thunder beneath the earth.
"To test the child," Elara said, holding the boy aloft.
The guardian stepped forward. Vines unfurled from its chest and reached for the baby. They wrapped around him gently—not binding, but cradling. The baby laughed, eyes sparkling. Then, the vines lowered him to the stone floor.
"He carries a mark not of his choosing," the guardian said. "But it is not corrupted."
"So… he is safe?" Ariella asked.
"For now. But all roots grow. Some entangle. Others bear fruit. Only time will tell which path he takes."
---
They returned triumphant—but the village did not rejoice.
"You think we'll wait for that 'path' to ruin us?" one villager snapped.
"The forest's been shifting. The vines creeping near the fields—this is no coincidence!"
Mira stepped forward, tears streaking her face. "Please. He passed your test. He's innocent. I've never asked for anything but peace."
But the crowd closed in.
"You ask for peace, but bring doom!"
"You and your cursed child must leave!"
"Now!"
Elara stepped between them. "You're condemning an innocent—"
"No. We're protecting what's left."
Mira fell to her knees, clutching her son. "He's just a baby. He doesn't even have a name yet. Please don't make me leave."
A hard-faced woman replied coldly, "Better no name than one remembered for blood."
And so, with only a threadbare satchel and her child swaddled close, Mira was cast beyond the village walls.
As she begged one last time—voice cracking, body trembling—her child, nestled in her arms, turned his head. He did not cry. His eyes, far too aware for a newborn, scanned the crowd with unsettling clarity. One by one, he took in every face twisted in scorn, every sneer, every pair of eyes that had turned away from their pain. He memorized them—not with hatred, not yet, but with quiet, eerie precision.
None noticed.
Not even his mother.
That evening, a chill returned.
From the edge of the corrupted forest, vines slithered again—slow, deliberate. They didn't attack. Instead, they shed silvery spores into the wind. Wherever the spores landed, those nearby staggered—grasping their heads, eyes widening as visions filled their minds.
A boy surrounded by roots.
A pot pulsing with ancient life.
A man splitting in two—one shadowed, one still weeping.
---
In the center of the village, the stranger stirred. The one who had spoken in riddles. His body seized violently, and he fell to the ground, convulsing.
Then his mouth opened—and a voice not his own emerged.
"The vessel… has arrived."
The crowd went still.
"He will bloom… before his time…"
Then silence.
He collapsed and did not wake.
---
Night fell.
Mira sat beneath a gnarled tree beyond the outer stones, her baby asleep in her arms. She whispered songs from her childhood, though her voice trembled. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks streaked with grief—but she did not weep.
A breeze passed over her, lifting a few strands of her hair.
The child stirred slightly—and smiled in his sleep.
Beneath the village, where roots had long slumbered, something stirred.
A slow inhale.
A waiting breath.
And then—stillness.