The Whispering Woods did not live up to their name. They did not whisper. They sang.
It was a low, deep-throated hum that vibrated through the soles of my boots the moment I crossed the tree line. It was the sound of immense, ancient life. The song of roots delving deep into forgotten strata, of sap rising through trunks as wide as houses, of leaves breathing in a rhythm older than kingdoms. After the dead silence of the ossuary and the screaming conflict of the sewer, it was overwhelming.
I stumbled forward, my entropic stillness instinctively recoiling from such vibrant, teeming energy. The forest felt my presence. The song didn't stop, but it changed. A note of caution woven into the harmony. The trees themselves seemed to lean away from me, their branches creating a narrow, watchful path deeper into the gloom.
I didn't know how far I'd run. My lungs burned. My legs were leaden. The image of Elara standing alone against Cassian's golden light was seared onto the back of my eyelids. Had she held him? Had she gotten away? Or had my freedom been purchased with her capture? The thought was a physical pain, sharper than any exhaustion.
I finally collapsed at the base of a colossal oak, its bark gnarled and patterned like a wise, ancient face. The hum of the forest was a tangible pressure against my skin. I curled into a ball, pulling my hood tight, trying to make myself small against the immense, living world around me. I was a speck of decay in a universe of growth. A wrong note in a perfect song.
Sleep, when it came, was not restful. It was a fractured replay of screams and golden light and the crumbling of stone. I woke with a gasp, the pre-dawn grey filtering through the dense canopy. I was stiff, cold, and ravenously hungry.
The loaf of bread Elara had given me was a sodden, filthy lump in my pocket after the sewer water. I threw it away in disgust. I was alone, starving, and surrounded by a forest that viewed me with deep suspicion.
I needed food.
I looked at a nearby bush heavy with dark, plump berries. They looked inviting. But the memory of the withered leaf, the decayed birdseed, was a sharp deterrent. My touch was death. Could I even eat without poisoning myself? Was I doomed to starve, surrounded by plenty I couldn't touch?
A movement caught my eye. A small, red squirrel scampered down the trunk of the oak, a nut clutched in its paws. It stopped a few feet away, its black eyes regarding me with fearless curiosity. It didn't sense a predator. It didn't sense anything. To it, I was just a strange, still rock.
It nibbled on its nut, unafraid.
The irony was exquisite. I could unravel the essence of a master Sephirah, but I couldn't eat a berry without destroying it. I was the most powerful, helpless person in the world.
"It is not merely for objects. It is for life. To understand it, you must understand its ultimate expression."
Lyra's voice was a cold echo. Was this her final lesson? To force me to use my power on myself? To learn the precise control required to separate the life energy of the berry from its physical form? The idea was terrifying. A miscalculation would mean a painful, internal decay.
But the gnawing hunger in my gut was a powerful motivator. I had to try.
I reached out a trembling hand toward the berry bush. I didn't grab a berry. I hovered my finger just above one, feeling its plump, vibrant life. I delved past the surface, past the skin and the juice, seeking the core of its existence. I found the flow of energy, the cellular processes that defined it as a living, nourishing thing.
And then I sought the boundary. The line between the berry's life and its physical vessel.
It was a razor's edge. I poured every ounce of my concentration into it. The Stillness around me became absolute. The forest's hum faded into the background. There was only the berry and the void.
I didn't decay the berry. I… separated it.
A faint, shimmering mist, visible only to my Entropy-sharpened senses, rose from the berry. It was the essence of its life, its nutritional energy, stripped clean of its physical form. The berry itself didn't wither or rot. It simply… dimmed. Its vibrant color faded to a pale, waxy grey. It was now an inert, lifeless husk.
I guided the shimmering mist of energy to my lips. It had no taste, no texture. It was a cool, sustaining wave that flowed into me, quenching the hunger, easing the ache in my muscles. It was the most alien and wonderful thing I had ever consumed.
I slumped against the tree, breathless with effort and exhilaration. I had done it. I hadn't destroyed. I had transformed. I had taken what I needed without causing harm. It was a tiny, profound victory.
A soft sound made me look up.
An old woman stood watching me from between two silver birches. She hadn't been there a moment before. She was small and stooped, her skin the texture of the oak's bark, her hair a wild tangle of moss and vines. Her eyes were the deep, knowing green of the forest floor.
She did not look afraid. She looked… intrigued.
"You play a delicate tune with a heavy instrument, child of silence," she said, her voice like the rustle of leaves. "To sip the song without breaking the singer. That is a rare art."
I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding. Who was she? Another hunter?
She smiled, a network of wrinkles spreading across her face. "Be at ease, Ashen Blight. The woods have no love for the songs of Ain. Their music is too rigid. Too loud." She took a step closer, her bare feet making no sound on the fallen leaves. "We felt your discordant note enter our chorus. We felt you quiet the Golden Man's arrogant light. We have been waiting for you."
"We?" I asked, my voice a croak.
"The Unattuned who found a home where the City's song cannot reach," she said, gesturing to the trees around her. "Those whose elements are of growth and decay, of shadow and whisper. Those the Council forgets exist out here, beyond their walls of light and stone."
She was one of them. A community of outcasts. Elara's map had led me not just to safety, but to sanctuary.
"The girl," I said urgently. "The one with the sound. In the tunnel. Did she—?"
The old woman's smile faded. "The Songweaver fought well. She shattered the Golden Man's harmony and fled into the depths of the city. He was not pleased. His rage was a fire that scorched the stones. But she is free. For now."
Relief so potent it made my knees weak washed over me. Elara was alive. She had gotten away.
"The Golden Man will not give up," the woman—the elder—said, her green eyes growing serious. "He has tasted your unique frequency. He will hunt you both. He will not rest until your song is either his to control, or silenced forever."
She extended a gnarled hand, not to touch me, but to indicate the path deeper into the woods. "You are safe here. For a time. The forest will hide you. But hiding is not surviving. You have power, child of two worlds. But power without purpose is a storm that destroys everything around it, including itself."
She looked at me, and in her ancient eyes, I saw not fear of my power, but an expectation. "The question is not if the hunter will find you. The question is what you will become when he does. Will you be the Blight they fear? A force of mindless decay? Or will you learn the music of your power? Will you find a new song?"
The choice Elara had offered me was now being laid at my feet by the ancient wood itself.
I looked down at my hands. The hands that could kill, that could break, that could steal life. But also, now, the hands that could sustain. That could understand the deepest processes of existence.
I had run from the city. I had run from my past. I had run from what I was.
Standing in the humming, living heart of the Whispering Woods, surrounded by outcasts and ancient songs, I knew I could run no longer.
The Ashen Blight was a name given to me by my enemies.
It was time to choose my own.
I looked at the old woman, and then down the path she indicated.
I took a step forward.