The roots sealed shut above them with a grinding boom, locking out the sky.
No light came in now—only the silver-green glow from the basin's center, and the deep violet shimmer that pulsed under the kneeling elves. The lines of the magic circle spread from their joined points like cracks in glass, cutting through the roots underfoot.
Eliakim's chains flexed in the gloom, their rust-tinged vapor curling in the confined air. Malachi's eyes flicked from the elves to the dome. "It's not just a cage anymore. It's alive."
And then the ground lurched.
A spike of root shot up between Caleb and Gideon, splitting them apart. From the dome's interior walls, vine-tendrils whipped down, barbed and quick, striking at random—forcing the group into constant motion. The elves did not move from their kneel, their lips moving in sync, their hands pressed to the circle.
The runes beneath them flared brighter.
Caleb's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and absolute."Stop them. Now. That's not an attack—they're opening a gate."
Eliakim ducked a vine strike, whipping his chains across the nearest one's shoulder. The armor there rotted through instantly—but the elf didn't even flinch. Their chant didn't falter.
"That circle," Caleb continued, eyes locked on the runes, "there's only one man in the Canopy who can make it. And if they finish…"
His words trailed as a ripple of violet energy surged up the dome. The lines in the circle sharpened, forming a crest—a crown of jagged wings.
Ezra's knuckles whitened on her staff. "Who is it?"
Caleb's jaw tightened. He glanced around the group, then at Eliakim. "The King of the Dark Elves. And that is a direct link to him."
Eliakim's suspicion flared. "And you know this… how?"
The answer came like a hammer-blow."Because I was born in the Kingdom of Aeloria. And I've seen his circles before."
The fight seemed to freeze for half a second—long enough for Eliakim to register the weight behind those words.
Aeloria. The realm locked in shadow and thorn, sealed from outsiders for a century.
Eliakim narrowed his eyes. "So that's why you knew the basin's pattern. Why you've been steering us on paths you chose."
Gideon snarled as a vine wrapped his axe haft, snapping it in two swings. "Enough talking—tell us how to break it!"
"You can't," Caleb said. "Not in time. Once it stabilizes, he can step through from anywhere in the kingdom. That's why we move—now."
The dome shuddered again. The four elves pressed deeper into the runes.
From the center of the circle, a column of violet light shot upward, striking the dome ceiling—and sticking, like it had hooked into something beyond. Shapes moved inside it. Tall. Armored. Feathered shadows.
The forest screamed, its sound a tangle of wind and cracking wood. Roots lashed out at both elves and intruders alike, striking without pattern. The three-way battle ignited in earnest—Gideon and Malachi hacking through vine and foe alike, Eliakim's chains buying every spare second.
Caleb ripped a barbed vine from his shoulder, eyes never leaving the circle. "If we cut west, the root-path will take us out. I can lead you to the castle before he reaches it."
Eliakim's stare lingered, measuring. Caleb's tone had changed—less guarded, more like command.
And in that moment, with the forest collapsing into chaos around them, Eliakim realized the truth: Caleb's allegiance was not to the Canopy. It was to the war beyond it.
"Then move!" Eliakim barked.
Caleb nodded once, then broke into a run, guiding them through the twisting death-trap—toward the west, toward the only road that could lead to the Dark Elf King's throne.
Behind them, in the violet light, the shadow in the circle turned its head.
And smiled.