"The Thorn King: Fall of the Root"
The forest pulsed like a living thing, vines curling inward as if holding its breath. Elara stood at the base of the great black tree, her hand on Corrin’s shoulder. His eyes were unfocused, locked on the pod that held his sister.
“Don’t listen to it,” she whispered. “That voice—it’s not hers. It’s him.”
Corrin shook, tears forming. “But what if she’s still in there? What if she’s waiting for me?”
“She is,” Mira said gently, stepping beside them, her eyes glowing faintly. “But not like this.”
The forest responded with a low groan, bark creaking. Thorns writhed along the ground. The Thorn King’s voice rumbled from within the trunk:
“You tore open the surface, child. But you never severed the root.”
A thick, gnarled root burst from the earth, snapping toward Elara. She rolled aside, slashing with her knife. Sparks flew from the blade—it had tasted the Thorn King’s blood before.
But it wasn’t enough.
“We can’t fight him with steel anymore,” Mira said, drawing the book from her satchel. “He’s become more than a man. He’s become memory. Soil. Regret.”
Elara opened the book, flipping pages until she found the spell marked in red ink: “Rite of Severance.” The old magic. Dangerous. Forbidden.
“I’ll read it,” Mira offered, placing a hand on the page. “I can feel him. I know the rhythm.”
Corrin knelt beside his sister’s pod. “Just promise she’ll come back.”
“If we succeed,” Elara said. “We all will.”
Mira began the chant. Her voice trembled at first, then steadied, deepening as the forest reacted. The tree screamed. The faces in the bark shifted, twisted—some in agony, others in hope.
Vines lashed out. One wrapped around Elara’s leg, dragging her toward the roots. She stabbed again and again, screaming—but it only slowed.
“Keep chanting!” she shouted.
Then Corrin did something unexpected—he pressed his palm against the pod.
“I’m here, Sera,” he whispered. “I never left.”
The pod cracked.
Light burst from it—pure, blinding. A wave of golden energy surged outward, shattering other pods. Children tumbled free, dazed but breathing.
Mira’s voice reached its peak. “From root to thorn, from crown to dust—be undone!”
A sound like tearing fabric filled the forest. The great tree cracked down the center, bleeding black sap. It howled—not just in anger, but in terror.
The Thorn King was afraid.
“Go!” Elara shouted, dragging Mira to her feet. The children ran through the trembling forest, roots splitting, branches crashing.
Behind them, the tree collapsed with a roar that shook the sky.
When the sun rose, the Weeping Forest was silent.
No whispers.
No vines.
Just ash, soil, and green sprouts poking through.
Epilogue
Windmere’s wells filled again. Crops bloomed. Laughter returned.
The rescued children remembered nothing of their dreams.
Elara planted a single ash tree where the forest once stood, its leaves pale silver, its bark warm to the touch.
She visits it sometimes, when the wind grows still and the sky turns gray.
And though the Thorn King was buried beneath earth and memory, she never forgot his final words:
“Roots run deep.”
But now, she carries the knife, the book, and the charm.
Just in case.
THE END
