The dawn broke not with gold, but with greenfire.
From the canopy down to the undergrowth, Thornwood glowed with a pulse like a living heartbeat. Not chaotic—no, this was rhythm, deliberate and measured. A breath. A memory inhaling through the mouth of the earth.
Kaelyn stood alone at the crest of the Ebonridge Hollow, the highest point in the southern forest. Beneath her, the expanse of Thornwood sprawled in all directions—branches interlocking like clasped hands, roots weaving themselves into the skin of the world. But even from this height, she saw the shifting.
Where once the trees stood still in the windless morning, now they moved—not swaying, but responding. Turning. As if the forest had grown eyes, and now watched her.
"It's listening," Eran had whispered the night before. "Not just to you—but through you."
She hadn't slept since. Sleep felt like surrender now.
The bloom beneath the Verdant Spire still pulsed in its silver spiral, untouched by flame or rot. But the others? Dozens more had appeared overnight. Some glowed with green light, others shimmered like mirrors, reflecting faces that weren't there.
And not all of them were beautiful.
Kaelyn turned from the ridge and made her descent. At the base, the moss opened into a clearing shaped like a spiral—a natural echo of the bloom. The place was called Wyrmroot Glade, though no one remembered why. Only the old barkkin told tales of serpents that once coiled beneath the hills, their bones turning to roots over time.
Today, the glade was filled with song.
A low hum, not from voices, but from the forest itself.
The rootborn children stood in a ring, hands clasped. Their eyes glowed faintly, their mouths unmoving. Yet the melody rose from them, wordless and haunting.
Kaelyn stepped into the circle. They didn't stop.
"Can you hear me?" she asked gently.
The humming deepened, shifted. And then, without warning, the child closest to her broke from the ring and walked forward.
It was the same child from the Mirror Pool—the one who had first spoken of the dreams.
"You made me," he said again.
Kaelyn knelt, her voice trembling. "What's your name?"
The boy tilted his head. "Which one?"
Behind him, the circle resumed their song. The trees joined in—leaves rustling in time, roots vibrating softly like strings plucked beneath the soil.
The boy touched her wrist, where the thorn-scar still glowed faintly. "You called her, and now we dream. But not all dreams are ours."
Kaelyn swallowed. "Is she hurting you?"
He looked confused. "No. We're becoming."
"Becoming what?"
He paused for a long time. "A song."
And then, as if a signal had been passed, the entire clearing fell silent.
From the trees emerged Eran, pale and drawn, his blade of living vine wrapped around his wrist like a snake. "Kaelyn," he said, barely catching his breath. "Northwestern border. Something's wrong."
She stood immediately. "Show me."
They ran.
Through brush and bramble, past glades now humming with unseen voices, they reached the edge of Thornwood's western fringe. And there, beyond the woven threshold of roots, lay the cause of Eran's alarm.
Stone.
Miles of it. Not ruin. Not debris.
A wall—ancient and monolithic, half-sunken into the ground. And etched into its surface, just barely visible beneath centuries of moss and grime, was a sigil.
A crown of thorns.
Kaelyn froze.
"This… this is older than the Thorn Queen's time."
Eran nodded grimly. "I've seen this before. A long time ago, in visions she never shared. A city lost before the Thornwood was born. This was once a kingdom."
Kaelyn stepped closer. The stone vibrated faintly beneath her touch. Warm. Alive. Not magic. Not entirely.
Memory.
She pressed her hand flat against the wall, and the world fell away.
In an instant, she stood in another time.
The forest gone. Replaced by towers of pale silver and rivers that pulsed with light. A city grown, not built—its spires rising like spears of woven bone and glass. In the center, a palace of living stone, its heart glowing with a tree that bled amber light.
And at its steps stood a woman—not the Thorn Queen. Not yet.
Younger. Unscarred. Crownless.
Kaelyn gasped. "It's her."
The woman turned as if hearing her. Their eyes met across the divide of centuries.
And the woman smiled. "You're early," she said.
Then everything burned.
Flames consumed the city, vines erupted from cracks in the stone, and the scream of something ancient—metallic and monstrous—shattered the vision.
Kaelyn was thrown back, gasping, her hands scorched from the contact.
Eran caught her. "What did you see?"
"A warning," she said. "And a beginning."
She turned to the wall again. "This city—this lost kingdom—it's not separate from the Thornwood. It's what came before. And the Thorn Queen… she didn't curse the forest. She became it. She was trying to stop something."
Eran was silent.
Kaelyn looked down at her hands. The burns had already begun to heal—too quickly.
"I'm changing," she whispered.
"You're becoming her," Eran said softly.
"No." She turned to him. "I'm becoming what she could not."
The wind shifted.
From behind the wall, a sound echoed. Not voice. Not song.
Stone breaking.
A crack formed in the surface—spreading like a wound across the face of the lost city's barrier.
Kaelyn stepped back.
Whatever had been sealed within was waking.
And it was not alone.
She turned to Eran. "Gather the council. Ready the rootborn. We're not protecting Thornwood anymore."
He frowned. "Then what are we doing?"
Kaelyn looked back at the city beyond the wall, where shadows stirred and memory festered like rot.
"We're defending the future. One root at a time."