Chapter 40 – The Forest That Bleeds
The sky was split open with crimson streaks, as if the heavens themselves were wounded. Kieran staggered to his feet, pain burning through every muscle. The shockwave from the Heart's collapse still echoed in his bones, vibrating like a curse.
Around him, the Ironroot forest writhed in agony. Trees bent unnaturally, their trunks cracking as dark sap oozed from fresh splits—sap as thick as blood. The ground pulsed under his boots. Roots crawled across the soil like veins trying desperately to stitch themselves back together.
The forest wasn't dying.
It was hurting.
And it blamed him.
Kieran wiped the black sap from his arm where it had splashed. It clung like tar, refusing to come off, burning slowly into his skin.
He didn't have time to deal with it. He needed to move.
Above him, crows circled in disarray, their cries frantic, as if even the creatures of the air felt the forest's rage. The once-calm night was now alive with a suffocating pressure—a sense that everything around him wanted to collapse inward.
Roots burst from the ground behind him without warning.
Kieran dove just in time, rolling as thick tendrils snapped shut where his legs had been. More roots erupted, whipping at him with violent precision, each strike filled with the focused fury of a wounded god.
He sprinted through the crooked trees, dodging, sliding, nearly tripping as the forest shifted beneath him.
The Ironroot was no longer testing him.
It was hunting him.
He leapt over a fallen trunk—only for it to split open like a wound. Hundreds of small, spidery roots crawled out, skittering toward him on twitching tendrils.
Kieran swung his sword, slicing through them. They recoiled, shrieking like living things before burrowing back into the earth.
"What have I done…" he muttered under his breath.
The collapse of the Heart hadn't destroyed the forest. It had shattered its balance—unleashed something primal and feral beneath its roots.
The forest wanted a center. A will. A consciousness.
And Kieran had refused the crown it tried to force on him.
For that, the Ironroot now sought retribution.
A sudden shift in the air made him stop. A cold wave washed over him, a presence familiar and hated.
He turned.
The shadow—his twisted mirror—was forming again.
Not whole, but reforming. The dust that Kieran's blade had scattered now slithered together, shaping into limbs, a torso, a head. But the figure flickered, unstable, its form cracking like broken glass.
Still… it lived.
"You…" Kieran breathed.
The shadow's golden eyes flared weakly. "You severed the Heart… and so you severed me. Yet the forest… clings to what remains."
Its voice wavered, distorted, as if spoken through water. It was weaker, but dangerous in its desperation.
"You can't exist without the Heart," Kieran said.
The shadow smiled—a sad, bitter curve. "Nor can you escape without replacing it."
Kieran stepped back, gripping his sword tighter.
The shadow tilted its head. "The forest bleeds. And when a beast bleeds, it becomes wild. Unthinking." Its cracking fingers pointed at Kieran. "It will tear you apart. Unless you accept what you were meant to become."
Kieran spat on the ground. "I'd rather die than be your puppet."
The shadow's eyes flickered in disappointment. "Then you'll die."
It dissolved into smoke and vanished.
The forest shifted instantly.
Branches bent, closing off paths. Roots twisted upward, building walls of tangled wood. Kieran's only exits were sealed.
The Ironroot was reshaping itself around him.
Trapping him.
He slashed at the living walls, but they healed instantly, bark knitting together in seconds. The forest hummed—a low droning sound that vibrated in his skull.
Then a voice, echoing through the trees:
"Kieran…"
His blood froze.
That voice belonged to someone he thought he'd buried long ago.
Elara.
His sister.
He whipped around, breath caught in his throat.
There she stood—barefoot, pale, wearing the same simple dress she had worn on the night she died. Her hair hung tangled around her shoulders, and her eyes glowed faintly green, the color of the forest's sap.
She stepped toward him, and the roots parted for her like servants.
"Why did you leave me?" she whispered.
Kieran's heart clenched. "You're not real."
But she laughed—soft, fragile. A laugh he remembered too well.
"Kieran… brother… the forest showed me. Showed me how you survived. How you abandoned me to the fire."
He shook his head violently. "No. NO. I tried! You know I tried!"
She reached for him, and he stumbled backward. Her eyes were filled with an unearthly emptiness.
"When the fire took our home," she said softly, "you chose to run. You let me burn."
Kieran felt his knees weaken. Memories he avoided for years surged like a tidal wave—heat, screaming, smoke, and the small hand he never managed to reach.
"Stop…" he whispered. "Stop…"
The forest fed on regret.
On guilt.
On pain.
Elara stepped closer, the skin of her arms cracking like charred wood. Smoke seeped from her mouth as she spoke:
"Take the crown, brother. If you become the Heart… I can come back. We can start again."
Kieran stared at her in horror.
"That's not you," he said. "That's the forest wearing your face."
Her expression twisted, melting into shadowy rot. Her hair fell away. Her skin collapsed into black sap. Her eyes burned gold—the same as the shadow.
She lunged at him.
Kieran slashed instinctively, and the illusion burst into mist.
The forest roared in fury.
The ground split open, forming a gaping chasm. Roots whipped out, grabbing Kieran's ankles, his wrists, his waist. They hoisted him upward, suspending him over the widening fissure.
Below him was darkness—a swirling pit of roots, sap, and screaming voices.
The forest wanted to swallow him.
Wanted to make him part of its foundation.
He struggled, snarling through clenched teeth. "I won't be your Heart!"
The roots tightened.
His vision blurred.
The shadow's voice echoed again, everywhere at once.
"Every king is crowned by force… or by willing surrender."
The roots yanked him downward. His blade slipped from his hand, falling into the pit below.
Kieran felt the cold sap rising around his legs, burning through his skin like acid.
He screamed.
Not in fear.
In defiance.
Using sheer will, he twisted his body, wrenching an arm free. He reached down, grabbing a thick root with both hands, and pulled with every ounce of strength he had left.
The root snapped.
He fell—
—but caught another tendril, swinging wildly over the abyss.
Below him, he saw faces in the sap. Dozens. Hundreds. People the forest had consumed. Eyeless. Mouths open in silent agony.
He climbed.
He didn't know how. Didn't know where the strength came from. But inch by inch, with fire in his lungs and blood dripping from his fingers, he pulled himself upward.
The forest screamed in fury, its roar shaking the trees.
Kieran reached the edge and dragged himself onto solid ground, collapsing on his back.
He lay there, gasping, staring at the fractured sky.
The forest could be killed.
Not by fire.
Not by steel.
But by starving it.
By denying it the crown it craved.
The Ironroot wanted a king so it could live forever.
Kieran realized the horrifying truth:
If he refused its will, the forest would destroy itself trying to break him.
And it would take everything around it with it.
Kieran pushed himself up slowly.
Blood dripped from his chin.
His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
"…Then let it burn."
He stood.
The forest hissed.
Its roots coiled.
Its branches tensed.
Its shadows thickened.
Kieran faced the darkness.
For the first time, the Ironroot saw not a vessel…
…but an enemy.
And the war between man and forest had finally begun.