The Root Wakes
The Circle burned behind him.
The sound of cracking stone rang like gunfire through the sanctuary. Screams from the Hollow Ones echoed in every corner—jagged, shrill, not human. And at the eye of the storm stood Lira, wrapped in a cocoon of swirling shadow, her body swaying like a marionette strung between two worlds.
But Cuco didn't scream.
He ran forward with the Rootbound Tome clutched tight in his arms, heart pounding like a war drum. His boots skidded across the fractured floor, dust clouding the air, ash settling in his lashes.
He dropped to his knees, flung the book open.
The moment his fingers touched the cover, it hissed—a wet, living sound, like the exhale of some sleeping thing roused too soon.
Vines retracted from the book's spine, curling away like they recognized the urgency. The pages turned on their own, riffling in a blur until they stopped—
On one.
It glowed.
Ink shimmered across the parchment like it was alive, symbols warping, writhing. Cuco couldn't read them.
But something in him could.
His mark ignited in golden fire, casting a light that spilled across the page. The glyphs lifted from the surface, hovering midair, reshaping into something that wasn't language but memory. Not a spell of syllables, but of pain. Of blood.
A voice rang inside his skull.
Ancient.
Ravenous.
> "You are not the lock," it whispered.
"You are the seed."
Cuco arched back in agony, eyes wide, lips torn in a silent scream as light surged through his veins. His hands struck the broken floor.
And the Circle answered.
Roots erupted from the cracks—thick, gnarled, and glowing. They twisted upward, ripping through stone like it was paper, climbing toward the ceiling like arms toward the heavens. They struck fast, snaring Hollow Ones mid-scream, binding them in coils of pulsing wood. Their cries turned to gurgles as the roots tightened.
Lira turned.
The darkness around her snapped and hissed, furious—but the roots reached her too.
Only… differently.
They didn't strike.
They embraced her.
A dozen vines circled gently around her arms, her waist, her trembling shoulders. Light flickered over her skin.
And for a moment—
Just a breath—
Her eyes cleared.
Soft and startled, she looked at him.
"Cuco?" she whispered, voice so small, so her, that it cracked something in his chest.
He moved toward her.
But the book flipped again.
And this time—it screamed.
Not into the air. Into him. A thousand voices compressed into one jagged thought:
> Arturo.
His father's name exploded in his mind like a curse.
Cuco staggered as his mark changed. The spiral at its center began to unwind, curling outward like a doorway. The light from the book bled from gold to red, pulsing.
And then—
The vision took him.
It wasn't a memory.
It was prophecy.
A tree loomed before him—titanic, dead, blackened like ash. Its roots spread across a plain of bones, twisted and endless. Its limbs reached into a starless sky, and from its branches hung the Dreamers—
Tariq.
Nox.
Isabela.
Motionless. Drained. As if they had been harvested and left to wither.
And beneath that tree—
A door.
Jagged. Open.
Inside it—
Himself.
But not.
This Cuco wore a smile cold as frost. His eyes shimmered with the same light that pulsed from the gate. Watching. Waiting.
And then—
He came back.
Gasping.
The Circle had fallen into silence.
The Hollow Ones were gone—dissolved into shadow or fled into deeper dark. The air still trembled, but the worst had passed.
Around him, the others stared. Not in fear.
In awe.
In uncertainty.
In something that hadn't existed before.
Isabela stepped forward, blade still drawn but lowered. Her gaze was sharp, assessing.
"What did you do?" she asked.
Cuco rose slowly, the Tome closed in his hands.
His voice was quiet, steady, no longer unsure.
"I didn't open the gate," he said.
He looked down at the mark still glowing faintly on his skin.
"I woke something else."