Chapter 159: The bowstring and the bloom
The moss road wound ahead of them like a living thread, glowing faintly under the pale light of Echoterra’s endless sky.
Clayton walked at the head, roots whispering beneath his feet, his senses stretched wide.
Unlike the first time when he awoke, since he was no longer alone, his movements were sharper and more straight-laced as compared to then, now, he had some of his companions by his side already.
Kaelin’s presence especially brought him such confidence that he couldn’t explain. It almost felt like he would never stumble into danger without knowing.
Kaelin just had that effect on people.
Soren kept pace to his right, silent but sharp-eyed, while Kaelin ghosted to his left, half in the Ashveil even here where the veil of Echoterra twisted strange.
They had walked for what felt like hours, though time here bent and stretched in unnatural ways.
Sometimes the light didn’t change at all, other times the sun seemed to lurch lower, shadows racing like running water. It was weirdly disorienting, but having expected things like this from the onset, Clayton held them steady.
One thing he knew though was that they weren’t walking blindly.
The moss wasn’t just growing, it was guiding them.
Every patch and every twist of vine hummed faintly with law, old law, trial law. If he listened carefully enough, it almost whispered... ’this way’.
And then...
"Clay," Kaelin said quietly after a while, his voice as sharp as a knife through quiet. "You feel that?"
Clayton paused mid-step without hesitation, his senses shifting.
If there was anything that he grew to respect more than even his own senses, it was Kealin’s senses. It had saved him and his Rootsite so many times, and hence why he did not hesitate to stop.
And as he sensed, he felt it.
At first, it was only faint, like the prickle of wind on the back of his neck. Then sharper, like a thread drawn tight across the air.
A string. No, a bowstring.
"Yes," Clayton said, forcing a grin with his plantoid face. "Veyra."
Kaelin nodded once, his eyes narrow with slight delight. "It’s close, vibrating in the ground, almost like she’s firing."
’Firing?’ Hearing that, Clayton’s chest tightened, relief and urgency at once. "Then we’re not far."
Soren adjusted the grip on his Emberblade, his emberglass body reflecting the world on itself. "Then let’s hurry before she’s overrun."
They moved faster now.
The moss road bent into a grove of thorn-trees ahead, spiraling into concentric circles like rings of defense.
Their trunks were twisted and iron-hard, their branches thick with black thorns glistening like obsidian. The entire grove hummed with resonance, tuned not for beauty but for war.
Clayton could tell at just one glance that this was different.
He stopped at the outer edge, resting one hand on the bark. It was warm, and alive.
"This isn’t random," he muttered. "This is deliberately arranged. Someone made this spiral a fortress."
The others exchanged glances, but before they could reply, the sound reached them.
Snap!
Then again.
Snap... snap...
The unmistakable song of bowstrings releasing.
Another sound quickly followed it. A cry, sharp and wild.
Clayton didn’t hesitate as soon as he heard his sound, his body instinctively jumping into action as he pushed forward into the spiral.
And there, they found her in the third ring.
Veyra stood in the center of a clearing, her bow drawn to its full length.
But it wasn’t her regular bow artifact, rather, it was her Aspect itself, embodied, alive in her arms.
Vines coiled around her arm, twisting into a living weapon. Each and every arrow that she loosed grew from nothing, it was pure Genesis force sharpened into thorn-tipped bolts.
And around her, enemies closed in.
They weren’t Behemorphs, not quite.
They were servitors, constructs that were half-animal and half-plant, echoes of the Old Order. Their bodies were woven from bark and bone, their eyes lit with faint golden light.
Together, they moved with the single purpose of suppressing intruders.
Veyra was outnumbered at least ten to one, but like usual and like Clayton had seen so many times in battle, she wasn’t faltering.
Her will stood just as defiant as usual as her arrows cut clean through servitor necks, pinning them to trees. Her stance was firm, breathing steady, and her face set in grim defiance.
But even she couldn’t hold forever.
Clayton didn’t hesitate.
"On me!" He roared, Verdant power bursting from his core.
Roots lashed out, impaling two servitors before they reached her flank.
Soren charged into the thick of them, Emberblade cleaving through constructs like fire through dry wood.
As for Kaelin, he slipped into shadow, his daggers flashing as he appeared behind one, slit its throat, and vanished again before the others could react.
Veyra’s eyes widened when she saw them, but only for a heartbeat.
She didn’t waste breath as she quickly loosed another arrow instead, taking down one more enemy.
If the fight was once intense and tight-roped, leaning on an edge, the fight changed, becoming quick, vicious, and one-sided once the three joined in.
Clayton’s roots tore servitors apart in waves. Soren was a blazing wall, cutting down any that dared close. Kaelin dismantled them from within, striking weak points with surgical precision.
With the four of them working together, it felt like the old times and like the old times, nothing survived standing in their way.
It was over in minutes.
The last servitor hissed as Veyra’s arrow nailed it through the skull, pinning it to the spiral’s bark until it went limp.
Then, silence fell.
Clayton turned to her, breathing steady. "Veyra."
She lowered her bow slightly, her vine-weapon unraveling back into her arm. For a moment, she only stared at him, eyes wide, lips pressed tight. Then she exhaled sharply.
"Took you long enough," she said, though her voice cracked on the edges.
Clayton almost smiled, almost. "You held well."
"Of course I did," she snapped, though her bow hand trembled slightly.
Kaelin snorted. "You’re welcome, by the way."
She shot him a glare. "I didn’t need saving."
Soren raised a brow. "Looked like you were running out of arrows."
Her mouth opened, then closed. Finally, she muttered, "Shut up." But the relief in her eyes betrayed her words.
Clayton stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "We’re together again. That’s what matters."
For a long moment, she said nothing, only studying him. Then she nodded once, sharp. Her silence told her true feelings at this moment.
They rested at the edge of the spiral grove, the broken servitors already dissolving into motes of light that the ground absorbed.
Clayton sat apart for a while, but the others gathered loosely around the small fire Kaelin managed to coax from strange bark.
Veyra cleaned her bowstring with steady hands. Kaelin flicked a pebble into the flames, shadows dancing across his sharp face. Soren sharpened his Emberblade, sparks bouncing on the ground.
"You’ve changed," Veyra said finally, glancing at Clayton.
He met her eyes. "So have you."
Her lips quirked. "Fair enough, guess that’s what Echoterra does."
Kaelin smirked. "Echoterra doesn’t change you, it strips you. Shows what you really are."
"Then what’s that make me?" Soren asked dryly.
"A wall with a sword," Kaelin replied instantly.
Soren chuckled softly. "Could be worse."
Veyra rolled her eyes. "Some things never change."
For a few moments, the heaviness lifted. They laughed, and the fire cracked, and for a heartbeat, it almost felt normal.
But Clayton’s attention was elsewhere.
He sat with one hand pressed against the soil, eyes half-closed, senses stretched deep. There was something else pulsing beneath them, faint but steady. Not hostile, not servitor.
A bloom... alive, healing.
He recognized it instantly. ’Mirra’.
But unlike Veyra’s clear bowstring tug, this was different. Mirra wasn’t simply waiting to be found. She was woven into the soil itself, her Aspect signature beating in harmony with the land.
Clayton frowned. "She’s here," he said quietly. "But... different. The soil carries her, like she’s part of the rootweb now."
Veyra frowned. "What does that mean?"
"I don’t know yet," Clayton admitted. "But if the Trial is about understanding this land, she may be its key."
That night, when they finally drifted into uneasy rest, Clayton dreamed.
No, not dreamed, he saw.
The soil’s memory opened to him, spilling images of the past like rivers.
He saw thrones, massive, pulsing Verdant Thrones rising like fortresses. He saw Lords, towering and radiant, clashing with roots and steel and fire. The land split under their battles, groves burned, and rivers turned to ash.
And through it all, something scarred the ground, leaving behind a wound that had never healed.
A voice whispered through the soil...
"Find the scar... find the Bloom... heal the wound."
Clayton woke with the taste of ash in his mouth and the glow of roots still pulsing in his eyes.
The system’s whisper followed, cold and precise.
DING!
~----~
[Orientation: 33% Complete]
["Find the lost Bloom. Find the scar of thrones."]
~----~
He sat upright, gaze fixed on the horizon.
Mirra was the Bloom. Torren... the scar.
And Echoterra had only begun to show its teeth.