Gravity tugged at Elias's heels, heavy and insistent.

  They had climbed above the viscous mist of Threadfall Gully, trading the suffocating damp for a nightmare of vertical travel. Fused. gnarled roots and massive mushroom shelves disappeared into the gloom above them.

  Elias's fingers cramped. He dug his gloved hands deep into the cracked, slick bark, hauling himself up another metre. The path had vanished, ending at a sheer bulwark of vegetation that demanded they climb, not walk.

  The lead scout—her grey plaits threaded with bits of bone and lichen—didn't even pause to assess the obstacle. She simply kept moving, finding handholds that barely looked strong enough to support a bird.

  "Hands and feet," she called back, her voice echoing strangely against the damp wood. "Three points of contact. Do not trust anything that shines too brightly."

  "Comforting advice," Elias muttered to the empty air, shifting his grip.

  He reached for a hold. The bark under his gloves felt slippery with condensation, more like living skin than wood. Fungal plates had colonised the thicker roots, overlapping like scales. He hauled himself up, boots scrabbling for purchase. His fingers slipped on a patch of slime; he caught himself with a grunt, a sudden flare of pain shooting through his shoulder where the pack strap dug into muscle.

  He shifted his weight instinctively to the left, waiting for the familiar, heavy shove of a Warg against his thigh to steady him.

  There was nothing there—just damp air and a drop that would break his neck.

  Muscle memory was a liar. It didn't care about the Emberkeep sigil burning a faint warmth into his palm, or the stasis glyph holding Cindersnarl safe. It just knew his flank was exposed, and the absence of the beast felt like a missing limb.

  [COMPANION SLOT: OCCUPIED – CINDERSNARL (STASIS)]

  The floating golden text hovered in the top right of his vision, mocking him. He blinked it away and forced himself to keep climbing.

  Above him, the world peeked through.

  The mismatched team hauled themselves out of the ravine's throat and into the heart of the canopy. Calling it a "canopy" felt wrong. The trees here had long since given up competing for the sky. In their place, titanic fungal columns had risen, fused, and grown again. Broad caps overlapped at staggering heights, forming a chaotic, layered platform of pale, spongey terraces that stretched out into the distance.

  It was an alien architecture. Smaller growths sprouted from the edges—bracket fungi, giant shelf mushrooms, knotted clusters that looked like clenched fists. Thin bridges ran between the main trunks—some deliberate, braided from root and hardened mycelium; others looked like accidents, fallen slabs that had lodged haphazardly wherever they had landed.

  Light filtered in bruised shades of violet and green through gaps in the upper fungal caps. It wasn't day, but it certainly wasn't night; a permanent, murky twilight that flattened shadows and made judging distance impossible.

  The smell assailed him anew. The raw rot had receded, replaced by a faint, sour tang – like overripe fruit gone past its best. Sweat beaded along Elias’s spine, instantly soaking his undershirt.

  "Welcome to the Gloamspire," the lead scout murmured, her voice flat, its tones absorbed by the acres of mushroom flesh. "Keep up."

  The first stretch was deceptive. It was almost calm.

  The Leshei moved in a loose, practised formation, light on their feet despite the vertigo-inducing height. Their bark armour creaked softly, like trees swaying in the wind. Elias tried to match their rhythm but failed.

  The native flora fought him. His boots sank into the spongy caps with every step, leaving shallow prints that slowly rebounded behind him. Every time he stepped near the edge of a platform, the surface sloped away, threatening to roll his ankles. Openings between the caps offered glimpses of the drop – the mottled grey-green of the lower Hollow far below, veiled in a poisonous haze of spores.

  Veyra ran two places ahead of him, her staff slung across her back and a short blade in her hand. She moved with the ragged grace of someone who had fallen from this height before and survived purely out of spite. She made constant, micro-corrections in her stride, her hands always hovering near something grabbable.

  She hadn’t said a word since Threadfall. That wasn’t new, but there was a tension in her shoulders, an edge to the way she scanned the shadows. She looked like she was hunting for a threat to throw herself at.

  "Is it always this quiet?" Elias asked, ducking under a hanging curtain of translucent fungi that brushed his neck like cold, wet fingers.

  "Until it isn’t," the rear scout rumbled. He had a voice like worn granite. "The Gloam doesn’t like to show its teeth all at once."

  "Wonderful," Elias panted. "You should consider rewriting your travel brochures."

  Nobody laughed. One of the scouts huffed air through their nose, which Elias counted as a victory.

  A soft chittering sound drifted from their left. Elias turned his head, hand drifting to his sword. A cluster of small, pale shapes clung to the underside of a massive cap. For a second, he thought they were insects. Then the shapes shifted, revealing empty eye sockets and half-sprouted ribs.

  Cryptskulls. Dormant. Bone lightly webbed with mycelium, sleeping in the dark.

  [TARGET: CRYPTSKULL SWARM] [THREAT: AERIAL SWARM]

  "Ambush!" Elias yelled.

  The swarm dropped.

  Dozens of skull-sized creatures, half-bone and half-wing, rained down onto the bridge. They cluttered the air, snapping with broken teeth and diving in chaotic arcs.

  Veyra didn't stumble. She spun her staff, cracking two out of the air with a single, fluid motion.

  "Don't let them latch on!" the lead scout shouted. "They'll weigh you down!"

  One clamped onto Elias’s pauldron, its talons skidding on the metal. The weight was surprising—dense bone dragging him toward the edge. He slammed his shoulder into a supporting strut, crushing the creature against the bark. It burst into a cloud of bone shards and dust.

  "Forward!" Veyra barked. "Push through!"

  They ran the gauntlet. Beaks snapped at Elias’s visor. He punched one out of the air, felt another crunch under his boot. More massacre than fight; the sheer numbers meant it was blind panic in a confined space.

  They reached the far platform, lungs heaving. The swarm didn't follow; the creatures retreated to the dark underside of the caps, chittering.

  "That," Elias wheezed, checking his seals, "was unpleasant."

  "They are scavengers," the rear scout grunted. "They sense weakness."

  "Great. I’ll try to look tougher."

  They didn't get time to recover. More predators were waiting for them. The attacks came in staccato bursts. A Thrall hauled itself halfway out of a trunk before an arrow pinned it. A partial Cryptskull shambler clattered along a ridge until someone kicked it out into the void. Once, the lead scout detoured them around a pulsing cluster of bone and fungus without a word.

  "Those burst," she said when Elias looked at it. "You don’t want to be near when that happens.”

  Between skirmishes, the environment turned hostile. Paths thinned underfoot. Bridges frayed, fibres snapping like old rope. Even the roots underfoot seemed to trip Elias intentionally.

  "Faster," the scouts kept chanting. "Keep moving. Don’t give it time to think."

  Elias’s legs dragged, thick and uncooperative, and each breath scraped hot in his throat. He was too tired to swear when the real trouble finally caught up with them.

  He heard them before he saw them.

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  A pulse of low frequency hit before the sound. A deep, thrumming tremor travelled up through the fungal plate and into Elias’s boots.

  Then came the noise—a jagged, rising shriek that echoed off the canopy, distorting until it was impossible to tell where it started. It sounded like wet wood splitting under pressure.

  The lead scout didn't slow down. She stopped dead.

  "Weapons," she hissed, her head snapping toward the dark upper branches. "That’s the pack call. They know we’re here."

  "Who?" Elias asked.

  She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

  A shape dropped past them on the right, landing on a lower cap with a heavy, wet thud. Sliding towards the edge, its claws gouged deep furrows in the fungus as it gained purchase.

  The Weeping Briarwolves had returned.

  Turning its massive head, the first Briarwolf locked eyes with Elias, hollow sockets crowded with bioluminescent threads, pulsing in time with the low, terrible keening.

  Another appeared on a higher shelf. Then a third, half-hidden behind shelf-fungi.

  "Tighten up," the lead scout snapped, not looking back. "They pick off the stragglers."

  "I'm moving," Elias gasped, forcing his heavy boots to keep pace. "Just go."

  Veyra made a sound that might have been a laugh, her grip tightening on her blade.

  The nearest wolf opened its mouth. The keening rose, joined by the others, turning the entire canopy into a resonant chamber of sound.

  "Run," the scout said.

  This was no longer a countryside jog. It was a desperate scramble.

  The path became an obstacle course of lethal impediment. The Leshei flowed over it, using handholds Elias would never have seen – knotted cords, natural ridges. They cut sharp angles, trying to break the wolves' line of sight.

  Elias followed, judging the distance on every jump. The drop was always there in his peripheral vision. His boots slipped twice; each time, a hand grabbed his harness and yanked him back.

  Gravity meant nothing to them. The wolves scrambled up the sheer trunks as easily as they ran on the flats. They dropped from the upper shelves and surged up from the mist below, turning the empty air into a frenzy of gnashing teeth and claw. Arrows snapped from Leshei bows, punching into the wolves' flanks, but the creatures merely staggered and kept coming.

  "Can't you call anything down on them?" Elias shouted, glancing at the upper layers.

  "This is down," the rear scout shouted back. "Up is for the birds."

  A wolf lunged from a side platform. Veyra met it halfway. She didn't dodge; she shoulder-checked it, a hard, brutal impact. Her blade flashed, cutting deep into its flank. The creature's tendrils ripped loose, and it went over the edge, dragging a chunk of the cap with it.

  Veyra didn't break stride.

  "You know you can't keep doing that!" Elias yelled when he pulled level with her.

  "Doing what?" She didn't look at him.

  "Throwing yourself under everything that comes near us! “You cannot be the wall every time!"

  "Someone has to fill the gaps," she snapped. "Better me than the others."

  The ground shook. A cap behind them buckled and fell into the depths. The keening rose once more, closer now.

  "Left!"

  They veered up a spiral path around a thick column. The angle was punishing. Elias's legs screamed. Steam rose off his skin.

  Halfway up, yet another ambush hit.

  A Briarwolf launched itself from a higher cap, anchoring itself to the column wall to intercept them. It slammed onto the narrow walkway, claws scrabbling, head snapping towards the nearest target. It stabilised, its massive paw cutting through the air impossibly fast towards the team.

  Veyra.

  She didn't hesitate. She stepped into the swing, ramming her shoulder under its chest to drive it back. The impact drove them both into the column wall. Bark cracked.

  The wolf's jaws clamped down on her side.

  The sound of teeth meeting little resistance at armour, then flesh, went straight through Elias's spine. Veyra's cry broke on the way out, little more than a rush of air. She grabbed the creature's throat, fingers digging mercilessly into the rot, and jammed her blade up under its jaw.

  The wolf thrashed, its thorns tearing through the column wall. The path beneath them crumbled.

  For a second, everything tilted outwards – Veyra, the wolf, and the slab of fungus – poised over the drop.

  The rear scout dropped his bow and lunged, catching Veyra’s wrist. "Hold!"

  Elias moved on instinct. He jammed his sword deep into the thick mycelium at his feet, grabbed a fistful of Veyra’s armour, and leaned back, using his weight as a counter.

  The wolf's bite tore loose. It fell, twitching and snapping at the air, dropping into the mist. Its mournful cry cut off with a distant thump.

  Veyra dangled over the open space, blood and grey-green fluid running down her side.

  "Pull!" Elias grunted.

  They heaved her up onto the solid path. She stayed on her feet through sheer stubborn will, one hand pressed to her ribs, her fingers doing little to staunch the flow.

  "We keep moving," she said, her voice terrifyingly calm. "We’re close."

  "You’re bleeding through your armour," Elias said. "You’re not in any condition to—"

  Pushing past Veyra, the lead scout snapped, "There is no time to stop; the pack is not broken. If we halt—"

  "If we don’t stop," Elias cut in, jabbing a finger towards the pair, "she bleeds out. Then you’re dragging a corpse, not a fighter. Find us cover."

  The scout hesitated, listening to the building howl. "We buy moments," she hissed. "No more."

  They pulled off the main route, slipping behind a curtain of translucent, hanging fungi. The slime brushed Elias’s face as he pushed through.

  The space beyond opened into a small alcove, just big enough for them to squeeze into. The thunder of the hunt outside muffled instantly.

  Veyra leaned against the column wall, hand still clamped to her side.

  "You have laid a heavy burden on my thread, Elias Ward," she projected, her voice sharp as a flint knife. "By pulling me back from the void, you have stolen my right to pay my debt to the soil. I am now a leaf that should have fallen, tethered to a man who does not understand the cost of a single breath."

  "Sit," Elias said.

  "I can stand."

  "SIT."

  He guided her down. Her surprise was evident as she folded more easily than her pride wanted to admit. He dropped beside her, his hands moving on autopilot.

  "Unless your people have magic bark that knits skin, I need to see it," he said.

  The rear scout helped him unbuckle the armour. Elias saw the fear in the man’s eyes – he was good at hiding it, but he could not hide it from Elias.

  They lifted the cracked leather and bark. The tunic underneath was soaked.

  "Knife," Elias said.

  He cut the fabric away. The wound was ugly – punctures between the ribs, ringed with shredded flesh and weeping bruises. Fine, hair-like spore fibres clung to the edges. A sudden sourness leached into the confines of their temporary shelter.

  "How bad?" Veyra asked through gritted teeth.

  "You’re not dead, so let’s keep you that way."

  Elias pulled items from his kit: bandages, clear spirit, and a pot of Leshei salve. Pressing a handful of cloth to the wound, he moved her hand to cover it. "Firm pressure. Don't be polite."

  She hissed but obeyed.

  He poured the spirit. Veyra swore – a fluid string of syllables that sounded like she intended to curse his entire lineage.

  "Good," Elias said. "If you’re swearing, you’re still with me."

  "Do not waste your tinctures on a single leaf, Medic. Save them for the root. My people have survived by knowing what to let die."

  He used the point of his knife to tease out the spore fibres, wiping the blade clean between each one. The rear scout handed him the salve pot. "For rot," he said.

  Elias dabbed it on. It fizzed like acid. Veyra arched her back, gasping.

  "Warn me next time!"

  "If I warn you, you tense up."

  He worked fast. His hands were steady, holding back the shaking in his muscles for later. He packed the wound and bound it tight.

  A soft rustle made him look up.

  The curtain of lichen at the entrance shifted. A shape pushed through.

  It stood there, watching them.

  Elias paused, blood on his gloves. Light flickered a familiar tag: [FENNROOT – WILD / UNBOUND].

  "Hello again," Elias said, his voice dropping to a tired murmur. "Are you following us, or just enjoying the show?"

  The rear scout stiffened, his hand tightening on his bow. "It… followed us?"

  "Same one we met back in the Gully," Elias said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Or one of its cousins."

  "They do not leave their hollows," the lead scout murmured, staring at the creature with a look that hovered between confusion and reverence. "To see a spirit twice… that is not a coincidence, you are marked."

  The Fennroot ignored the Leshei. It shuffled closer, looking at the bloody cloth, then up at Elias. It tilted its head, mimicking the motion Elias had made earlier.

  "I’m busy," Elias told it gently. "Unless you’ve got a way to stop this platform shaking, we need a minute."

  The Fennroot blinked slowly. It walked to the edge of the platform and placed a small, root-like hand on the floor. Threads of light ran from its fingers into the mycelium.

  The shaking of the platform stopped. The wolves' vibrations dampened instantly.

  "Well," Elias muttered. "I stand corrected."

  "It is masking our weight," the lead scout whispered, clearly unsettled. "The roots are listening to it."

  Elias finished the bandage and pulled Veyra’s armour back into place. "You, walk," he told her. "Slowly. If you see double, tell me."

  "I can still fight."

  "Nobody’s asking you to lie down and die, but let the others take the lead for a bit."

  "Stop touching my bark as if I am a wounded pet. In the Weald, we do not 'comfort' the dying; we listen to their final rhythm so it can be passed to the saplings. Your 'mercy' is a form of vanity—you save us so you do not have to feel the silence.”

  Elias recoiled as if slapped and stood up, his knees popping. The Fennroot turned and pointed a root-like finger towards a narrow ridge path hidden behind a fungal fold.

  The lead scout leaned forward, squinting into the gloom. Her shoulders dropped, the tension draining out of her.

  "That’s an old game trail," she said, sounding genuinely relieved. "Look at the gap. The wolves are too big to follow us in there."

  Elias exhaled slowly, his breath ragged. He eyed the narrow crack in the rock. It wasn't exactly a fortress, but nothing with giant teeth could fit through it.

  "Thank God," he muttered, offering the little creature a tired nod. "That looks perfect."

  He glanced at Veyra. "Are you going to make it?"

  "Walking," she grunted, pushing herself off the wall. "Let's get out of here."

  The final stretch felt different.

  The Briarwolves didn't vanish – their mournful keening still echoed through the fungal network – but the path the Fennroot chose allowed them to slip between the cracks in the wolves' patrol routes. They moved along narrow ridges, ducking under overhanging branches. Twice, Elias saw wolves pass below them, eyes searching the sky.

  Something had shifted.

  They reached a chokepoint: a single log of hardened mycelium, a bridge extending over empty air to a distant trunk. No rails. No support.

  "Again? Seriously?" Elias muttered.

  "Single file," the scout ordered. "Do not stop."

  The log had just enough give to be terrifying. Elias stepped out, arms windmilling as his boot slipped. The drop looked infinite.

  Halfway across, the log shuddered.

  A Briarwolf slammed into the column they had just left. It looked up, saw them, and roared. Its muscles bunched as it prepared to leap.

  Suddenly, roots erupted from the underside of the log – fresh, angry growth. They shot out, wrapping around the wolf's muzzle and neck. Thorns dug in.

  The wolf howled as the roots dragged its head down. Its hold on the column broke. For a second, it dangled, suspended by the living growth. Then, with a wet snap, the roots released it into the void.

  The log stopped shaking.

  Elias didn't look back. He simply put one foot in front of the other until he reached solid ground.

  "Your spirits are in an interesting mood," he said, stepping off the bridge with a shudder.

  "They liked what you did for Veyra," the rear scout said quietly. "Or they liked that you stopped her from sacrificing herself to the wolves. Hard to say."

  The canopy thinned. The caps became smaller, more widely spaced. Light filtered down, a washed-out gold. The smell changed again – pine resin, ash, and ritual smoke.

  "Smell that?" the lead scout said. "We're close."

  The Briarwolves stopped. They paced the invisible border, growling in frustration, but they didn't cross.

  One last climb brought them to a broad, sloping cap. Facing them was a massive structure – a wall of fused living wood and fungus, taller than a fortress gate. Branches and roots were woven so tightly they formed a solid barrier. Patches of bark were carved with glowing Leshei glyphs.

  The Withered Weald.

  The scouts stopped. A hush fell over them.

  One scout stepped forward and placed a hand on the wall. He spoke low words in an old tongue; roots, corruption, duty.

  The wall obeyed.

  Slowly, gently, the glyphs brightened to amber. The woven roots unknotted themselves, pulling back like muscle fibres relaxing. A narrow opening formed.

  Beyond lay a different world: filtered daylight, dead leaves, and the silhouettes of gnarled, twisted trees.

  And there, waiting, was a line of figures, tall and draped in bark and cloth, their faces masked with wood and moss, staffs planted firmly on the earth.

  The Elders.

  "Don't speak first," the lead scout murmured. "They've been listening longer than you've been alive."

  Elias swallowed, his throat dry. "Wasn't planning on opening with jokes."

  He glanced back once.

  On the edge of the copse, half-hidden by a bracket fungus, the little Fennroot watched them. It dipped its head—a tiny, jerky nod—and then sank into the mycelium and vanished.

  "Thank you," Elias whispered.

  He squared his shoulders, adjusted the heavy sword at his back, and followed the Leshei into the Weald.