The streets opened.
Not like roads. Like wounds.
Stone split, skin-streets tearing to reveal rivers of black blood surging beneath Spinedral. The air thickened, heavy with iron and ash, every breath like swallowing coals.
The city was no longer a place.
It was a throat.
Kane crouched at the edge of a fissure, dipping his finger into the blood-vein. He licked it, slow, eyes rolling back. Then he grinned.
"Sweet," he said. "Sweeter than sin."
The spine-blade in his hand pulsed. Not metal. Not bone. Something in-between. It drank with him, every drop brightening its marrow-glow.
Kael watched in silence. The root inside him twisted, eager. It lashed against his ribs, pressing for release. His veins bulged black beneath his skin, webbing like cracks across a glass jar.
The Dark Tome spun above them, shrieking words into the air. Pages flayed themselves open. Flesh-script burned.
"Let the children kneel. Let the streets feast. Let the Bloom root. Let the Blade cut."
Thirn fell to her knees, arms wide, paper-dress unraveling into a storm of strips. Each strip sang with ink. Each strip clawed at the air, writing words that were not words, prayers that were not prayers.
"The Feast begins," she intoned. "The God will eat. And through you, it will awaken."
Kael stepped forward. His palm opened, and the root answered. Tendrils tore out of his chest, plunging into the bleeding streets.
The ground convulsed. Buildings shuddered, swaying as if caught in a storm. Windows exploded into screams. Towers bent, their spires dripping with ichor.
The city drank him back.
Every tendril rooted itself in Spinedral's veins. And Spinedral pulsed with him.
Kane laughed, spreading his arms. "Look at you. Becoming a garden."
He raised the spine-blade high, and with a single swing, he cut through the nearest tower. Not stone. Not wood. Flesh. The tower howled as it fell, crashing into the chasm with a sound like bone snapping.
The god above stirred. Its shadow writhed, stretching across every street, every corpse, every trembling soul.
Kael's eyes snapped open. They burned black. His voice was low, but it carried through the entire city:
"Rise."
The corpses obeyed.
Skinless husks. Shattered bones. Hollow eyes. They pulled themselves from gutters, from doorways, from beneath the veins of the street. Each one twisted, reshaped by his root, until they stood taller, stronger, dripping with black fire.
The city had an army now.
Kane whistled. "Well, brother. You bloom. I cut."
He waded into the risen dead, laughing, spine-blade carving arcs of lightless marrow-fire. Every strike split not just flesh, but memory—his victims dissolving into screams that clung to the air.
Kael raised his hand. The Tome hovered, opening wider. Its scream tore through the city, a command written into the marrow of the world.
"Feed. Feed. Feed."
The root inside him howled.
The god above sighed.
And Spinedral bent lower, closer, as if ready to swallow itself.
Chapter XII – The Feast of Veins
The streets opened.
Not like roads. Like wounds.
Stone split, skin-streets tearing to reveal rivers of black blood surging beneath Spinedral. The air thickened, heavy with iron and ash, every breath like swallowing coals.
The city was no longer a place.
It was a throat.
Kane crouched at the edge of a fissure, dipping his finger into the blood-vein. He licked it, slow, eyes rolling back. Then he grinned.
"Sweet," he said. "Sweeter than sin."
The spine-blade in his hand pulsed. Not metal. Not bone. Something in-between. It drank with him, every drop brightening its marrow-glow.
Kael watched in silence. The root inside him twisted, eager. It lashed against his ribs, pressing for release. His veins bulged black beneath his skin, webbing like cracks across a glass jar.
The Dark Tome spun above them, shrieking words into the air. Pages flayed themselves open. Flesh-script burned.
"Let the children kneel. Let the streets feast. Let the Bloom root. Let the Blade cut."
Thirn fell to her knees, arms wide, paper-dress unraveling into a storm of strips. Each strip sang with ink. Each strip clawed at the air, writing words that were not words, prayers that were not prayers.
"The Feast begins," she intoned. "The God will eat. And through you, it will awaken."
Kael stepped forward. His palm opened, and the root answered. Tendrils tore out of his chest, plunging into the bleeding streets.
The ground convulsed. Buildings shuddered, swaying as if caught in a storm. Windows exploded into screams. Towers bent, their spires dripping with ichor.
The city drank him back.
Every tendril rooted itself in Spinedral's veins. And Spinedral pulsed with him.
Kane laughed, spreading his arms. "Look at you. Becoming a garden."
He raised the spine-blade high, and with a single swing, he cut through the nearest tower. Not stone. Not wood. Flesh. The tower howled as it fell, crashing into the chasm with a sound like bone snapping.
The god above stirred. Its shadow writhed, stretching across every street, every corpse, every trembling soul.
Kael's eyes snapped open. They burned black. His voice was low, but it carried through the entire city:
"Rise."
The corpses obeyed.
Skinless husks. Shattered bones. Hollow eyes. They pulled themselves from gutters, from doorways, from beneath the veins of the street. Each one twisted, reshaped by his root, until they stood taller, stronger, dripping with black fire.
The city had an army now.
Kane whistled. "Well, brother. You bloom. I cut."
He waded into the risen dead, laughing, spine-blade carving arcs of lightless marrow-fire. Every strike split not just flesh, but memory—his victims dissolving into screams that clung to the air.
Kael raised his hand. The Tome hovered, opening wider. Its scream tore through the city, a command written into the marrow of the world.
"Feed. Feed. Feed."
The root inside him howled.
The god above sighed.
And Spinedral bent lower, closer, as if ready to swallow itself.