Zixuan screamed.
It ripped out of her throat, raw and primal—but the forest swallowed it whole.
The sound didn't echo. It didn't travel. It was as if the trees devoured her pain like starving beasts, feeding off her terror.
The roots lunged again.
Thick, blackened tendrils—wet with sap and something far darker—pierced her skin without hesitation. One slithered into the hollow of her throat like a serpent, another stabbed through the arch of her foot, splintering tendon and bone. She screamed louder, voice cracking, but still—nothing answered.
No one heard her.
No one came.
She was alone in the earth's belly.
More roots curled around her, gripping her wrists and dragging them backward until her shoulders popped. They stretched her like a crucifix, her back arching unnaturally, and then the forest dug in.
