The hush no longer whispered — it breathed. The pulse inside the rootheart swelled until the entire cavern throbbed with it, beating in Rafi's teeth, bruising his skull from the inside. He pressed a palm to the mossy ledge, trying to steady himself, but the roots twitched under his skin like veins alive with bugs.
The braid girl moved slow now, her knees slipping on wet stone as she knelt beside the boy. He'd stopped shivering. That should have comforted Rafi — instead it made him sick. No fever meant no fight left in him, only the hush's warmth filling the hollow behind his ribs.
Above, laughter dripped through tunnels like oil. The wrong children were close — no longer bothering with footsteps. They slithered now, giggling mouthfuls of forest rot and half-remembered lullabies.
Rafi pushed his knuckles against the rootheart's slick membrane. It pulsed back — a soft, wet greeting. Not cruel. Not kind. Simply hungry.
The braid girl looked at him through her tangled fringe, eyes black in the rootheart's glow. She didn't ask what he planned. He didn't ask her either. No words left down here. Only instinct.
Behind her, the sick boy's lips twitched into something like a smile — but it wasn't his. Roots coiled around his ankles, slipping under the cuffs of his pants, curling between ribs where his shirt had torn open. They drank from him gently, the hush tasting its prize.
Rafi snapped. He lunged, knife out. The braid girl caught his wrist in both hands, stopping the blade an inch from the boy's chest. Her hiss was raw, primal: Wait.
She jerked her chin to the tunnel mouth. Silhouettes crowded it now — too many wrong children to count. They crawled belly-flat on moss, nails scratching stone, eyes wide and empty. Waiting for him to fail.
The braid girl let go of Rafi's wrist. She slid her knife instead under the boy's ribs, tracing the pulse that wasn't his anymore. Her other hand pressed to the rootheart. It pulsed faster at her touch, thick wet beats that filled the cavern with a heartbeat too big to belong to anything sane.
Rafi understood. Feed it or starve it. A sacrifice either way. One clean cut, or all of them devoured piece by piece.
The braid girl's lip split between her teeth. The boy's eyes rolled white. Roots crawled higher up his spine, blossoming tiny flowers that smelled like sweet rot.
Rafi leaned close, forehead to the boy's clammy temple. He wanted to promise him life. He wanted to promise him anything but this. But the hush was so close now — it tickled the back of his throat, tasting his lie before he spoke it.
The wrong children in the tunnel laughed again — in unison, like puppets. The braid girl dragged the knife's point along the rootheart's side. Sap — or blood — welled up black and steaming.
She looked at Rafi. Her mouth shaped two words: Choose now.
His blade hovered. The hush opened its mouth behind his eyes.
Roots or teeth. Mercy or hunger.
He breathed once, the hush breathing with him. Then he chose.