The moss on the walls pulsed like veins beneath skin as the cave glowed with green luminescence. Scratching dirt off his arms and chest, Nathan stood warily. It was damp, cool, and strangely alive, as though the cavern itself were breathing.
Then, from the edge of his vision, a soft glow flickered.
A firefly.
Unlike the others he had seen above, this one glowed blue. Not just light—it seemed to carry intent.
Nathan followed.
The firefly weaved through the narrow paths, darting between stalagmites and dancing above ancient stone altars overrun with roots. The carvings here were older, worn almost smooth, but he could still make out human figures locked in reverence or agony. He didn't know which.
The firefly paused above a raised altar. Nathan stepped forward slowly, heart thudding. The moss receded.
The altar stood bare and unblemished, carved with spiraling patterns that sounded like a gentle hum. Then there was a sound, like leaves whispering in a storm. The vines along the cave walls began to shake. One by one, they stretched and twisted as they reached for the center. They curled inward, weaving around one another with impossible grace. A figure emerged—human in shape, but made entirely of twisting vines and glowing veins of sap.
The Vine Spirit stood before him.
Its face mirrored Nathan's. The jawline, the eyes, even the faint scar above his brow—it mimicked him perfectly. Its expression was soft. Curious.
Then, it spoke.
"You have wandered far, Nathan Wells. The forest knows your steps. I have listened to your words."
Its voice was neither male nor female. It was like wind through reeds.
"Your love runs deep. Your soul, though foreign, is old. And your pain… has moved me."
Nathan took a cautious step back, his hands half-raised.
"What… what are you?"
"I am root and thorn. Memory and seed. I am that which binds life to breath. I watched as you gave poetry to leaves. As you bled for her. As you refused to turn back."
The spirit stepped closer.
"I offer you a gift. The power to heal—not only the flesh but the soul. A song of restoration passed from the first vine that kissed light."
It raised its hand. Vines etched with runes unfurled in the air, forming shapes that shimmered and pulsed.
"Chant this when you wish to mend what is broken."
Nathan stared at the shapes, letting them burn into his mind.
"What's the catch?" he asked, his voice sharp.
The vine spirit smiled. Or at least, it curled its face into something like a smile.
"You will know. Eventually."
Nathan hesitated. Then he thought of Maíra—her trembling hands, her eyes that had once lit the night like fire.
"I accept."
The spirit extended its hand of vines.
Nathan reached out. The moment their palms touched, green light surged around them like a storm. It flooded his veins, etched glowing patterns into his arms, and filled his lungs with wind and sap and fire.
He screamed.
Then fell still.
When he opened his eyes, the spirit was gone.
And in its place, the firefly waited.
---
The firefly bobbed ahead, unwavering.
Nathan followed it through a twisting labyrinth of roots and stone. The walls seemed to pulse faintly with life, as if the cave itself had a heartbeat. Left, right, down steep steps carved by time and moss, until the path suddenly opened—light spilled in from above.
He emerged through a crevice hidden behind a wall of thick ferns near the village's sacred grove. A passage he'd never known. The jungle had guided him home.
He didn't wait.
He sprinted.
The tribal drums were quiet, the fire pits glowing faintly with the last embers of the night before. As he rushed into the chieftain's tent, he startled the elders gathered within.
"I have it," he gasped. "All of it."
He dropped to his knees, carefully unwrapping the satchel. The ingredients—Glowthorn, Black Feather Orchid, Ashen Heart Bark, and the others—were laid out before the chief like holy offerings.
Orun-Tah's eyes widened. He nodded solemnly.
"Then we begin."
The elders gathered around the sacred bowl—a large obsidian basin etched with runes. One by one, they added the ingredients, chanting in low tones. Smoke rose, green and silver, curling in the air like spirits drawn to song.
Nathan sat beside Maíra, who lay motionless in a bed of woven reeds, her skin pale and damp. Her breaths were shallow, twitching with every exhale.
The ritual lasted hours.
When the elixir was finally ready, the chief held the bowl to Maíra's lips. The liquid shimmered like moonlight and sap. She drank.
Her body arched violently.
She convulsed. Eyes rolled back. Then stillness.
The silence was unbearable.
Orun-Tah placed a hand on Nathan's shoulder. "It must settle in her spirit. By dawn, we will know."
Nathan nodded, silent. He sat beside her, cradling her hand gently in his. Her skin was cold. He brushed hair from her face, wiped sweat from her brow. He didn't leave her side.
He hummed songs they used to whisper under the trees. Songs about stars and rain.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed him.
He dozed beside her, forehead resting near hers. In his dream, he saw the cave again—the altar, the Vine Spirit, the mantra written in glowing tendrils.
But this time, it changed.
He whispered a new mantra. Not one of healing, but of bonding. Of tethering two spirits into one.
His voice in the dream echoed, ancient and raw.
As he murmured, a soft green glow spread from his hand to hers.
Her fingers twitched.
The light expanded, curling around both their forms like vines in bloom. It pulsed in rhythm, heart to heart.
Outside, the first light of morning split the sky.
The sun rose—and the jungle held its breath.
---
The Juruva village's thatched roofs were illuminated by golden spears of light from the sun. The smell of wildflower broth drifted on the breeze, birds sang in unison, and smoke from cooking fires curled languidly into the sky. Nathan woke up in the healer's hut to the warmth of her fingers curled around his, as well as the rising sun.
He blinked.
Maíra's eyes fluttered open, deep and brown as the jungle floor after rain. For a second, she simply stared. Then a smile bloomed across her face like the sun through morning fog.
"Nathan," she whispered, her voice soft, trembling. "You stayed."
She sat up, cheeks flushed with color and life. The fever had broken. The curse had receded like a bad dream. Her breathing was strong. Her touch was real.
Nathan froze for a moment, overwhelmed. Then his arms found her, and she leapt into his embrace, laughing. Her laughter was wild and bright, a sound that sent birds scattering from trees.
"You came back to me!" she cried, tears sparkling in her lashes.
Nathan held her tighter, burying his face in her shoulder. His own tears were silent, hot streaks down a face hardened by years of survival.
"You're okay," he murmured, again and again. "You're okay."
They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other, as if the jungle itself had paused to give them space.
Then came the footsteps.
A crowd had gathered outside the hut—elders, children, hunters, and weavers. They had heard Maíra's voice. They had seen the green glow the night before.
When the two lovers stepped outside, hand in hand, the crowd erupted in cheers.
"Maíra returns!" someone called.
"The spirit spared her!" another wept.
But then the voices turned.
"Teko'a!" they chanted—Nathan's tribal name, given to him long ago when he had finally been accepted as one of their own.
"Teko'a, the brave!"
"Teko'a, who walked where the trees speak!"
"Teko'a, who found the cure!"
Nathan's heart swelled, his tears now mixing with shy smiles as children wrapped vines around his arms like bracelets and the women offered flower garlands.
He looked at Maíra, who kissed his cheek and whispered, "You came as a stranger, and now they sing your name."
And under the morning sun, with drums beginning to play and voices rising like the wind through trees, Nathan felt something he hadn't in a long time—
Home.