Leonotis said nothing.
He turned his back on the mesmerizing coffin, walking to the nearest Baobab tree.
Its massive trunk was cool to the touch. He closed his eyes, pressing his palms against the bark.
He reached out with his mind, sending a tendril of green energy from his root-sword into the tree's roots, listening for the quiet hum of its centuries of memory.
At first, there was only silence. Then a whisper began to stir in his mind.
It was a story told in rustling leaves and creaking branches, a fragmented memory of a great sorcerer's ambition.
He opened his eyes and turned back to his friends, a haunted look on his face.
"His name was Bekeel," Leonotis said. "The trees remember him."
Low scoffed. "Since when could you talk to trees?"
"No, listen," Jacqueline urged, sensing the shift in Leonotis's demeanor. "What did they say?"
Leonotis looked back at the coffin, his gaze fixed on the glowing gems.
"They said he was a sorcerer who sought eternal life. He believed he could make death beautiful, a thing to be desired. He crafted this coffin from the bones of ancient creatures, thinking it would grant him immortality."
Zombiel tilted his head. "Did it work?"
"No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "It didn't give him life. It turned out to be a cage. The trees call it a lonely slumber… a prison. He is still here, inside the coffin, trapped. His soul is shackled forever."
The words hung in the air, heavy and cold.
The coffin was no longer just a beautiful, terrifying object. It was a tomb, holding a powerful, suffering soul.
Jacqueline took a step back, a hand flying to her mouth.
"A prison," she breathed, the word a confirmation of her own fears. "I knew it. I felt it. The magic is so strong it's like a cage, keeping everything inside from ever getting out. We have to leave."
Her fear was palpable.
But Zombiel edged closer to the coffin, his wide, red eyes fixed on the pulsing runes.
A faint smile touched his lips. "But think of the power," he whispered, his voice hushed with awe. "You wouldn't need to be scared of death. It'd be like a gentle sleep."
He reached a hand out.
A low growl rumbled in Low's chest, a sound that started deep in her throat and vibrated through the silent square.
Her hands flexed and unflexed, a faint feral gleam appearing in her eyes.
The malevolence of the coffin, its beautiful insidious lie, was a poison to her animalistic curse. It amplified her inner struggle, turning her fear into pure, untamed rage.
"That's not what death is. It just wants to take us, too! We have to smash it. Now. Before it takes us all."
Her instincts screamed for destruction.
"Wait!" Leonotis pleaded, stepping between Low and the coffin. "Bekeel's still trapped in there. Smashing it would kill him."
"It's not an answer, Zombiel," Jacqueline said, trying to sound calm. "It's a curse. A lonely, endless one. Bekeel didn't transcend death; he just got stuck in it."
"But it's so pretty," Zombiel insisted, his hand trembling inches from the coffin. "It promises peace."
"It's a lie!" Low roared, her muscles coiling. She lunged forward.
Leonotis slammed the tip of his root-sword into the ground.
Thick green vines erupted from the soil, lashing around Low's legs and arms, binding her.
Low fought the vines, her feral strength straining against the magical bonds.
Zombiel stared at the writhing vegetation and the beautiful, still coffin.
Jacqueline watched, ready to stop him.
Low's roars echoed off the crumbling walls of the village huts, the thorny vines holding her fast.
"Let me go! We have to smash it!" she snarled, eyes wild with feral hatred for the coffin's deadly lie.
"We can't just attack it!" Jacqueline argued, voice trembling. She stood protectively in front of Zombiel, who was still mesmerized.
"We may not get the chance to," Leonotis said, his voice grim. He had sensed the shift in the air a moment ago, the sudden, sharp change in the magical energy humming beneath the ground.
The sudden change prickled the skin on their necks.
The ground trembled, the faintest pulse of power humming beneath the earth.
Jacqueline felt it first: the magic, like a rising tide pulling at everything around them.
Low's eyes flashed to the statues.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then the Adze's stone wings creaked.