The forest had changed into something else entirely.
But not gradually, not with the smooth transitions you could plot and measure. Simply a line they'd crossed at some point in the last hour, beyond which the natural order stopped and something very different began. The corruption was not spreading further. They were traversing the heart of it, the land that had been completely overrun and converted into this beautiful, crystalline cemetery.
The air was cold. It was not the chill of morning nor the chill of altitude but a particular, oppressive cold that felt almost like the absence of warmth rather than the presence of cold. As if the warmth had been drawn out of the air, leaving only this empty, cold sensation that seeped through their clothes and into their bones. And the quiet was oppressive, heavy with the weight of their own footsteps on the earth of the path.
The Ironvine trees were not only ill, they were landmarks for the corruption that was spreading throughout the Vale. Their bark had begun the process of crystallization, turquoise and purple minerals growing through the bark like diseases, forming patterns that were beautiful and terrible. The bioluminescence remained, but it was stronger, illuminating everything with the feverish purple glow.
They encountered more dead things on their journey. A fox, caught mid-stride, its body turned completely into delicate turquoise crystal. Its fur was a mesh of glass-like structures, each hair exquisitely preserved and turned into crystal. The eyes were the worst of it. Faceted, multi-surfaced, reflecting the purple light that caught their surfaces. It was like looking into the eyes of creatures that had once been alive but were now only beautiful patterns.
A bird sitting on a tree branch, wings outstretched, as if it had been caught right when it was about to take off. Crystallized thoroughly, with feathers that were edged with glass, clinking gently whenever the breeze passed through it.
A family of rabbits huddled together near the base of the tree. They were all frozen, changed, a small sculpture garden of dead wildlife made of impossible minerals.
Alucent found himself listing them off. Recording the evidence. This was not random death. This was systematic transformation; biological matter transmuted into crystalline formations via some process he did not, could not, understand. The beautification effect carried to its ultimate end, beauty devouring life until only beauty and mineral immobility existed.
Gryan suddenly stopped walking, his cybernetic arm raised in a signal for the others to stop. His gaze was fixed upon the forest that surrounded them, his features transitioning from tactical analysis to something akin to horror.
"What is it?" Raya whispered, already reaching for the hilt of her Weaveblade.
"Listen," Gryan said. Then, after a pause, "No. Don't listen. Notice what you're not hearing."
Alucent stopped moving, focusing on the aural environment around them. Or, rather, the utter lack thereof. There were no insect noises. No bird cries. No small creatures scurrying through the bushes. Even the breeze rustling through the leaves was absent, since the leaves had crystallized and didn't sway the way natural matter should.
"There are no insects," Gryan said, his tone low and strained. "No birds in the trees. Nothing is moving except us. It's like a machine that's been turned off, like the switch was pulled and everything just stopped working."
The insight of the mechanic, the man who understood systems and mechanisms and the exact engineering of how things worked, counted for more than any philosophical horror could. This was not death as a natural process. This was the stoppage of function. The forest, a dead machine.
They kept moving because to stop was to give up, to admit that they'd come this far for nothing. The path of the Steamwagons was still visible, still stretching into the east, deeper into the fallen territory. It was clear that whoever had been hauling their freight through this place had only passed through in the last day or so, which meant they'd come into this crystalline graveyard of their own intent. Which meant they'd known what they were getting themselves into.
It was the first sign of conclusive evidence that Raya saw, perhaps an hour after the dead fox. She had been examining the bushes with expert prudence when she saw something that didn't fit. A wooden box that was warped and tucked away between the luminescent purple growths. She lowered herself cautiously to take a closer look.
There was damage to the box, with one side smashed, as if it had been dropped or tossed from a speeding car. But the other surfaces bore definite lettering. Not words, exactly, nor labels, but a symbol etched into the wood using what appeared to be a branding iron. It was a spiral that turned inward toward a single black dot at the centerpiece. It was the sort of symbol that might make a box easy to spot among a shipment.
"This is it," said Raya, tracing the burned symbol with her fingers. "This is the steamwagon that we are pursuing. Matching tread marks on the mud there, and the heading that they are following."
"What was in it?" Gryan asked, inching closer for a better view of the box.
"Nothing now. But look at the interior." Raya turned the box on its edge so they could peer inside. The wood was stained, discolored by something that had seeped into the grain. There were also scratches, thin parallel lines cut into the surface from the inside. "Something living was carried in that box. Something that attempted to get out."
Alucent gazed at the scratches, his gut churning. The Worm-like creatures? They'd been shipping the parasites off in crates, sealed boxes that carried them from breeding areas to points of dispersal. The inn. The village. But how many other areas had they developed around the Vale, he wondered?
They continued to follow the tracks. It was getting well into the afternoon, the sun beginning its progression toward the evening. The purple light of the crystallized forest was growing in strength, the natural light of the day giving way to a scene that seemed increasingly like a fever dream.
Next, the ridge.
The trade road rose gently, inclining towards what seemed to be a natural vantage point over lower-lying ground. Gryan signaled for them to slow down, to approach with caution, his military training alerting him to the possibility of high ground whenever he saw it. They crawled the last twenty meters on their hands and knees.
What they saw from the ridge made them all freeze.
Down below, cradled in a bowl-shaped valley that should have been well hidden from the usual travel routes, was the village. It was not a large village, perhaps two dozen SteamCottages arrayed perfectly around a central square. They were the usual construction of the Vale, brass and wood and the characteristic steam vents along the roof edge. Gardens ringed the cottages, carefully tended, filled with flowers and vegetables that shimmered with the purple light of bioluminescence they'd grown accustomed to witnessing throughout the forest.
But it was the people that made Alucent's chest tighten.
There were perhaps thirty or forty of them that were visible, wandering through the streets with the same calm, empty expressiveness they had seen at the Gilded Sprout. Adults cultivating their gardens with their slow and deliberate gestures. Children playing a game of catch in one of the courtyards, their voices carrying through the air but empty, mechanical, and devoid of underlying joy. An elderly couple sitting on a bench, hands clasped, smiling at nothing with their placid countenances.
It was a pantomime of village life. Everything that was right, everything that was proper, but devoid of anything remotely resembling real life. It was like watching puppet figures go through their predetermined rituals without comprehension of the reason they were performing the actions.
"Hollow's Heart," Raya whispered, so softly that Alucent hardly caught the words and replied. "This has to be the place's name. It was mentioned in Father's journal. It's a small farming settlement, famous for their medicinal plants. Father came there once, and he said that the people were friendly, that they had good community spirit."
"They're all drugged," Gryan said. "Just like the inn. Glowrose tea and Waros feeding. An entire village turned into a feeding ground."
Alucent was examining the layout, his eyes automatically noting tactical details even as he assessed the horror of what they were looking at. The cottages were arranged in a perfect circle. The gardens were placed between the buildings. The central square provided a focal point. It was simply too organized, too deliberately laid out to be the result of natural village development. This had been designed. This had been built, or altered from a pre-existing village, for exactly this purpose.
His gaze was drawn to the center of the village, the plaza where roads led from each of the cottages. There was a Runewell there. He could see the familiar building, the brass and stone structure that harnessed the Runeforce energies that flowed beneath the earth.
But it was not.
Eryndral's Runefell was imbued with the healthy, cyan-gold light of well-focused Runeforce. However, this one was vibrating with the same very deep, purple-hued, diseased light they'd seen throughout the tainted forest. It was flickering, varying in intensity, and forming patterns that were painful to gaze upon. And suspended about the well, like a cloud of gossamer-winged, insect-light entities, were dozens of the parasites.
The Worm-like creatures. Swarming the infected Runewell. Infesting it, but also living off it, surviving off the infected Runeforce the same way living organisms survived off light and nutrients. The well was not their nest, their home. It was their farm. An infected energy source that fueled their growth.
"They're breeding them," said Alucent, and his voice was rough. "This is a breeding ground. They've corrupted the Runewell to build a place for the Waros where they can breed, and then they take them and redistribute them elsewhere."
But why? Raya's grip on the hilt of Weaveblade was white-knuckled. "What's the purpose? What do they stand to gain by spreading the eating parasites throughout the Vale?"
Before they could respond, activity down in the village caught their attention. The door of the biggest cottage swung open. This one stood right next to the tainted Runewell, the one that was closest to the central square. This time, it was one person who came out, their movement possessed of a purpose and awareness that none of the other villagers exhibited.
She was a tall woman, perhaps in her forties, with very serious-looking features and hair braided back into a knot. She wore the practical robes of a botanist for the Verdant Vale, the sort of thing you'd expect to see on experts for the agriculture of medicinal plants. But on hers, that spiral sigil they'd seen on the box was embroidered. Right out there for everyone to see, on the front of the robe and down the back.
The Harvester. That's what Alucent found himself thinking, watching her approach the infected Runewell with a calm efficiency. Not fighting the parasites, not purging the corruption. Harvesting it. Cultivating it.
She had a variety of containers, glass cylinders inscribed with runic patterns that were likely the design of the containment fields. And a net with a long handle, silver mesh glimmering with inscriptions of its own. She moved deftly around the Runewell, scooping up the worm-like creatures one by one, catching them out of the air, and sealing them into the containers.
The three stood silently in shock on the ridge. This was not the discovery of an infestation. This was not the discovery of a natural phenomenon that needed investigation. This was the confirmation of their worst fears come true. The parasites were not only breeding, but they were also being raised specifically, harvested like any other crops, for distribution elsewhere.
It took perhaps twenty minutes for the Harvester to fill the six glass containers with the parasites. Each of these cylinders could hold perhaps a dozen of the beasts, their half-transparent flesh squirming against the runic barriers, their six human eyes blinking independently. When the Harvester finished, she carried the containers to the rear of the cottage, where the Steamwagon waited.
It was the same vehicle they'd been tracking. The tread patterns were the same, the rugged build the same, and the hauling capacity the same. To transport tons of material, she carefully placed the containers into the truck bed, padding them for protection against breakage.
And, of course, before she climbed into the driver's seat, she attached a small wooden sign to the side of the truck. The usual shipping protocol, Alucent realized. She was indicating the destination of the cargo so that it could be properly routed along the way.
It was quite a distance, perhaps fifty meters, between the ridge and the cottage. Too great a distance for ordinary reading, even for the clearest eyes. But Alucent felt himself focusing anyway, forcing his attention on the sign, trying to decipher the words by mere will.
And something strange occurred.
The world seemed to sharpen. Not his vision, per se, but his sense of the space between him and the target. As if the ambient Runeforce in the area was paying attention to his intention, accommodating itself very slightly to heighten his senses. The surface of the placard resolved, the beautiful script on it readable despite the distance and the failing light.
He could read it. Every word. Every line.
"What does it say?" Raya whispered urgently. "Can you see the destination?"
Alucent's mouth felt parched. His voice strained, as if the words themselves were a struggle for him to utter. He watched Gryan and saw the mechanic's face shift from curious to cold, terrible rage.
"Destination," Alucent said, the words dropping like heavy stones into a pool of still water. "Iron Vale. Forge District 7."
The silence that ensued was absolute.
Iron Vale. The Industrial Core. The place where precision, resilience, and progress mattered above all else. This was where Gryan came from. It was the place where the Conclave used prisoners for testing pressure systems and where they deemed it progress. It is where steam technology and mechanics were developed beyond reason for the sake of efficiency.
The trail of the memory-eating plague, bred deep within the pastoral heart of the Verdant Vale and raised here, in this hidden village, led straight to the industrial furnaces of what promised to be their biggest threat. The folk horror and the industrial military threat were not distinct. They were intertwined. Two sides of the same corrupting coin.
And they now knew where they had to go next.
Gryan's mechanical arm whirred softly, the cycles of the hydraulics system punctuated with controlled tension. But Gryan's face was a mask, his features frozen beneath a mask of controlled discipline. Yet Alucent could sense the anger seething beneath. This was the personal anger of a man who had escaped that place, who had lost his arm to their experiments, and who had sought to escape their philosophy only to discover it had tracked him down.
"We have to report this to Sir Vorn," said Raya, but there was no conviction in her voice. "This is beyond us. Beyond what three of us can deal with."
"But by the time we get back to Eryndral and Sir Vorn starts mobilizing a reaction, they'll have spread these parasites throughout several locations within Iron Vale," Gryan said. His tone was even, but there was a definite edge of steel beneath it. "We don't have time for the correct protocols."
"So, what are you suggesting?" Raya's hand had not left her Weaveblade. "We follow that steamwagon to Iron Vale and take on an organized group with three individuals and scarce supplies?"
"I'm proposing," Gryan said, turning to face both of them, "that we at least follow it long enough to verify the exact location. Get eyes on the operation that's going on in Forge District 7. And then it's up to us whether it warrants intervention or not."
It was insane. It was not a sound tactical maneuver. They were very likely to end up dead or worse.
But looking down at this village of empty smiles, at the corrupt Runewell breeding parasites that fed on the human memory and emotion, at the Harvester loading her shipment for delivery into the industrial heart of Senele, Alucent could think of no better choice.
They'd come this far on the trail of breadcrumbs of corruption and organized horror. They'd escaped the Gilded Sprout, made it through the crystalline forest, and uncovered the breeding ground that held the keys to how the infestation was being perpetuated.
They had intel. Real, good intel about the players involved and the destination.
But if we leave them and head back to Eryndral, it will feel like I was leaving behind every single person who'd contract the worm-like creatures through those containers. Every single person who'd lose their pain and fear and grief to the Waros, becoming empty shells with skin that looked like humans. Every community would get turned into a feeding ground. Alucent thought.
"We follow," said Alucent. "Cautiously. From a distance. We verify the location in Iron Vale and the size of the strike there. And then decide whether we can take it on alone or whether it is necessary for us to return for assistance."
Raya did not appear to be very happy. However, she nodded. That was the level of professional acceptance of a decision she personally did not like, but she was going to Gryan's face didn't alter. But there was a slight easing of his stance. As if he had been waiting for clearance for something he had already determined was needed.
Next, the Harvester began the engine of the Steamwagon. The engine's roar reverberated through the valley, the only sound amidst the unnatural hush of the tainted forest.
She moved cautiously, drawing out along a hidden trail that led out of the village and what she presumed was access to the trade route that existed farther east.
The three waited until she was out of sight. They then started their descent off the ridge, moving cautiously, using the cover. Following the trail that led to Iron Vale and what organized horror waited at the end.
It had started with the search for anomalies. Now it was becoming something else.
It was a race against the spread of the soul-eating plague. It was a battle with the corruption that linked the pastoral and industrial areas of Senele.
But they were marching right into the very heart of it with only determination and limited means and the hope that they could prevent it from spreading too widely.