"The Thorn King: Roots of Revenge"
Seasons passed, and Windmere began to heal. The rescued children, once pale and haunted, smiled again. Elara, though celebrated quietly by the village, found no comfort in praise. She knew better than anyone: the Thorn King was not truly gone.
At night, she still dreamed of him—standing in a field of roses, eyes like glass, whispering, “Roots run deep.”
Then came the drought.
Rain stopped falling. Wells dried. Crops curled in on themselves, brittle and brown. Animals grew sick. And near the forest, a strange black ivy crept from the soil, coiling around trees, stone walls, and fenceposts.
Elara knew the signs.
She gathered what she could: the ashwood charm, her knife, a small satchel of dried herbs, and something new—a book left behind by one of the Thorn King’s victims. Its pages were filled with strange symbols, half-legible spells, and warnings: “The Thorn King does not die. He only retreats.”
This time, she didn’t go alone.
A boy named Corrin, whose sister was still trapped inside a pod that hadn't opened, insisted on joining her. So did Mira, the baker’s daughter, who’d begun sensing the forest’s movements in her dreams. The three of them entered the forest at twilight, where the trees now seemed angrier—twitching, restless.
But something was different.
The forest no longer wanted them dead.
It wanted them closer.
“We’re being drawn in,” Mira whispered. “It’s not like before. He’s learned.”
They reached the ruins of the bramble castle. In its place now stood a tree—colossal and black, pulsing like a heartbeat. Its bark was made of twisted roots, faces of the lost etched into the knots. From its branches hung thorn-fruit, glowing faintly.
Corrin took a step forward, drawn to a low-hanging pod.
“Elara… it’s her. I can hear her.”
“No!” Elara grabbed his arm—but it was too late. The vines reached for him, gently, as if welcoming a child home.
From within the bark, a voice returned—deeper now, colder.
“You freed what was above. But what lies below… you cannot reach.”
The Thorn King had changed. He no longer needed a body—he was becoming the forest.
And now, he was growing.
