Binding Circle
They waited for dawn.
Cool gray light seeped through the fractured skylight above the heart of the Circle, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The Dreamers gathered in silence, forming a ring—ten in total, each standing equidistant, palms outstretched, coated in ash and etched with warding sigils that shimmered faintly in the dim light.
At the center stood Cuco.
He made no move to resist.
Unarmed. Still. Watching.
His blade remained sheathed at his side. The Tome rested on the ground before him, closed tight—yet humming faintly, as if aware.
Isabela lingered just beyond the boundary of the circle, arms wrapped around herself, expression unreadable. She hadn't said a word since the rite began.
Of those inside the circle, only Tariq looked uncertain. His fingers trembled at his sides, his gaze darting between the others, unsettled.
"This isn't what he needs," he murmured.
Nox didn't break her stance. Her voice came clipped and cold. "This is help. Before it's too late."
The ritual deepened.
The chant grew lower, each syllable a pulse in the air, a tether in the weave of magic.
From the edge of the circle, a golden filament spiraled out, curling around Cuco's feet like a living thread of light. It climbed—slow and deliberate—binding him inch by inch.
The Tome remained still.
Then it opened.
---
"No," Cuco breathed.
His voice was soft, but it cut through the chanting like a blade.
The weapon at his side shifted, inching free of its sheath. Not in defiance, but in warning.
Still, the Dreamers chanted.
The golden light coiled higher, looping around Cuco's chest, pinning his arms, locking his body in place like a figure of stone.
He turned his head toward Tariq.
"I told you," he said quietly, "what I'd do if they tried to bind me."
The sky beyond the skylight dimmed.
Wind ceased.
And Cuco's eyes—so long clouded with doubt—changed.
A mark on his skin flared to life. Gold, yes. But beneath the gold, a deeper hue surged upward.
Not shadow.
Not corruption.
Balance.
> "You tried to bind me," he said.
"But I'm not the lock anymore."
---
The ritual unraveled in an instant.
The golden thread shrieked and split, snapping away like a serpent struck. Energy recoiled violently through the room.
Several Dreamers were thrown to the floor, limbs flailing as cries rang out.
Nox flew back into the wall, breath ripped from her lungs, blood staining her lips.
Echo tried to sustain the incantation—but it turned on him. Vines sprouted from his mouth, thick and fast, binding his arms in a tangle of silencing roots.
Cuco's blade rose into the air.
It did not fall.
It hovered, suspended in perfect stillness, spinning slowly above the shattered circle.
And then it chose.
Not to strike.
But to root.
The blade planted itself in the stone, soundlessly, like a seed finding soil.
From its hilt, a network of roots erupted—slow and graceful—reaching toward the fallen Dreamers. Not to wound. But to hold. To steady.
To listen.
In the stunned silence, the Tome whispered:
> "This was never about control.
You are not Cuco's masters.
You are his witnesses."
---
Isabela stepped forward, pale and trembling, her voice barely audible.
"Cuco…"
He turned toward her. His gaze no longer entirely human—glowing softly with a light that rippled through layers of bark and memory.
"I didn't want this," he said, his voice heavy with grief and resolve. "But I won't be made into someone else's weapon."
Then, with a breath, he dismissed the blade.
The roots retracted.
The warding circle vanished, the ash symbols disintegrating like dust caught in a breeze.
The Tome shut itself gently. Vines curled over its surface in quiet repose.
Cuco stepped beyond the circle.
He passed them all—not in anger, not in triumph, but with the stillness of someone who no longer feared what he was becoming.
At the doorway, he paused.
> "Next time," he said softly, without turning,
"don't try to bind a root.
You'll only teach it how to grow."