The forest to the west had no name on any map, but the villagers had whispered one in fear: The Unrooted Grove.
Caelen and Elira arrived beneath its canopy as twilight bled through the trees. The moment they stepped across its threshold, the temperature dropped, and even the birds refused to sing. No wind stirred. No leaves rustled. The trees stood tall, twisted unnaturally, bark cracked like old bones. The Weeping Blade pulsed once, faint and cold.
"This place remembers," Caelen murmured, eyes narrowing. "But it doesn't feel."
Elira scanned the path ahead. "It's like the forest is afraid of itself. Like something inside it has turned inward and shut out the world."
They moved forward in silence. The path curled like a wound, gnarled roots clawing through the earth, as if the trees themselves had once tried to walk away. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became, thick with a pressure that gnawed at the heart.
Elira paused. "There's something here."
Caelen nodded slowly. "More than one. I feel them too." His voice was tight. "But it's… different. It's not pain. It's what's missing. There's a hollow where feeling should be."
He took a step forward—then froze.
A boy stood in the path ahead. No older than twelve. Silent. Barefoot. His eyes were pitch-black voids. He didn't blink.
Elira instinctively reached for her dagger. "Is he—?"
Caelen raised a hand to stop her. "He's not Hollow… but he's not whole either."
The boy tilted his head, and his voice emerged as a whisper—not through his mouth, but into their minds.
"Why do you still cry?"
Caelen's breath caught. The voice was emotionless, like dust speaking.
"Why carry pain when it can be taken away?"
Behind the boy, dozens of others stepped into view—men, women, children. All with the same blank eyes. They moved without sound, without breath, forming a semicircle around Caelen and Elira.
The forest had become a mouth—and this was its silence made flesh.
Caelen stepped forward. "Because pain is not a poison. It's proof we're alive. And without it, we forget what matters."
The boy didn't move. But the ground trembled faintly, and vines crept up from the soil, thornless and pale.
Elira's dagger shone with flame-light, her hand steady. "Whatever you are—whatever he left behind—we're not here to join you."
"You already have," the boy whispered. "You brought the blade. You brought his name. He is the key."
The Weeping Blade began to hum. Caelen clutched it, his eyes flashing. "He? You mean Eredan-Mir?"
"The echo of him," the voice said. "What he left behind. The hunger. The numbness. You carry it in the blade. In your blood. Let us take it. Let us unfeel it for you."
The world narrowed.
Caelen staggered slightly. The memories surged—Hearthollow burning. The scream of the girl he hadn't saved. Elira's cold hands after the illusion. The weight of a thousand regrets.
It would be so easy to let go.
But Elira's hand found his. She pressed her warmth into his palm, anchoring him.
"You don't get to take him," she said to the forest. "Not again."
Caelen looked into her eyes, and the numbness broke like glass. His grip tightened on the Weeping Blade.
"I'll never unfeel them," he growled. "Not one."
With a cry, he drove the blade into the ground.
Light exploded—pure, searing. It washed over the grove, burning away the pale vines, the blank stares, the whispering voice. The boy staggered back, eyes wide, a flicker of emotion—fear—cracking through the void.
The others froze.
Then one by one, they fell to their knees. Breathing. Crying. Feeling.
The curse within Caelen pulsed, but this time, it didn't burn. It warmed.
Elira lowered her blade, heart pounding. "What did you do?"
Caelen stood slowly, the blade gleaming with dew-like tears. "I reminded them. What it meant to be alive."
They turned toward the trees. Already, the leaves had begun to turn green.
The Unrooted Grove was no longer hollow.