The village did not sleep that night.
Even after the fires were extinguished…
Even after the cries faded into exhausted silence…
Fear remained.
And so did something else.
Arin stood beneath the banyan tree once more. The cracks had spread like veins across its ancient trunk. Faint black mist still slipped through them — thinner now, but alive.
He touched the bark carefully.
It was warm.
Like skin.
"You shouldn't be here."
Lyra's voice was softer than usual.
Arin didn't turn around. "If I don't face this… more people will get hurt."
A pause.
Then footsteps.
She moved beside him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The moonlight fell over her silver hair, making her seem almost unreal.
"You're hiding something," Arin said quietly.
Lyra stiffened.
"I can feel it."
The wind picked up gently.
The leaves whispered.
Not in warning.
In recognition.
Lyra stepped back slightly.
"There are things you're not ready to know."
Arin finally faced her.
"I'm already losing years of my life. I think I deserve the truth."
Her eyes shimmered — not with fear.
With conflict.
Before she could answer—
A low pulse traveled through the ground.
Both of them felt it.
Not violent.
Not dark.
Ancient.
The cracks in the tree glowed faintly purple.
Not green.
Not black.
Something different.
Arin's mark reacted instantly.
Burning.
He winced.
Lyra grabbed his arm.
The moment her fingers touched the mark—
The world shifted.
The ground beneath them disappeared.
They were no longer in the village.
They stood inside a vast silver space — like a sky without stars.
And beneath their feet—
Roots.
Endless roots stretching into darkness.
Arin stared around in shock. "What is this?"
Lyra's voice echoed softly.
"This is the Inner Root."
"In between worlds."
A deep vibration moved through the space.
And from the far distance—
A shape began forming.
Not the Hollow King.
This presence felt older.
Colder.
It did not burn with anger.
It felt empty.
Hungry.
Arin felt his chest tighten.
"It's been here longer than the Hollow King," Lyra whispered.
"And it's waking up."
The silver space flickered.
Visions flashed around them—
Guardians of the past.
Chosen.
Marked.
Falling.
Consumed.
Arin stepped closer to Lyra instinctively.
"If this thing is older… then why didn't you tell me?"
Her silence was the answer.
"You knew," he said.
"Yes."
The word was barely audible.
Arin's heart pounded.
"Who are you really, Lyra?"
The ancient presence pulsed again.
The roots trembled.
Lyra closed her eyes.
When she opened them—
They were no longer silver.
They glowed faintly green.
Just like his mark.
"I was created by the tree," she said.
"To guide the chosen Guardian."
Arin froze.
"You're not… human?"
"No."
The word hung heavy between them.
Silence.
But not rejection.
Not anger.
Only understanding.
"You were sent to watch me?" he asked.
"At first," she admitted.
The distant shape in the darkness shifted closer.
Reality began cracking around them.
"But that changed," she continued.
Her voice trembled for the first time.
"I didn't expect to care."
The ancient presence let out a sound — not a roar.
A breath.
Cold and endless.
The silver space shattered.
They were thrown back beneath the banyan tree.
Arin hit the ground hard.
Lyra fell beside him.
The cracks in the tree now glowed faintly purple.
Arin slowly turned to her.
"You're bound to the tree…"
"Yes."
"And if it dies?"
She didn't answer.
He understood.
The wind grew stronger.
Deep beneath the roots—
Something stirred again.
Not laughing this time.
Listening.
Waiting.
And for the first time—
It had sensed Lyra too.