The Rootbound Shambler lay in crumbling heaps across the chamber, still spasming where splintered roots met shattered stone. Sticky resin leaked from its joints like honey mixed with fireflies, pooling into glowing veins that pulsed between broken flagstones. A faint crackle—sap crystals cooling—was the only sound left. Even the air felt stunned, as though the dungeon itself were holding its breath.
Rodion stood exactly at the epicenter, motionless except for the slow furl of shredded cloak panels around his calves. Bits of pulverized bark slid from his pauldrons when he straightened. He examined the corpse as a jeweler might study a flawed gem, optics running through color-filters: thermal, spectral, mana-density. Each mode reflected off wizened bark in cold blues and violent reds.
