They returned in silence.
Vaelrik stood atop the ridge overlooking Menagerie Hold, the wind pulling at his coat, the air thick with the scent of ash and something more sour. Decay. Not from death or rot, but from Mournroot. From the thorns that now stretched far beyond the Hold's broken walls.
Below him, the scorched plains had changed.
Thorns had crept outward in twisting waves, curling through stone and soil, darkening the earth. What had once been ruin was now a tangled maze of thorned vines, some thick as tree trunks, others sharp as spears. The land pulsed faintly, alive, but not with peace.
Nightspine moved behind him, silent and watchful. The crowned beast didn't speak, but its presence was constant, half-seen, always near. Skarn paced nearby, claws sinking into the softened earth, eyes locked on the Hold below. Valgrin lumbered across the ridgeline, smoke curling from his jaws with every slow breath. Each heavy step cracked the stone beneath him. Zephyrion circled high overhead, lightning dancing in his wake. Forge and Karnyx stood farther back, silent, waiting.
But Mournroot was nowhere in sight.
Vaelrik stepped forward.
"Move."
They descended the ridge, the thorns pulling back just enough for passage. Skarn led the way, carving a path with each powerful stride. The ground beneath their feet shifted in strange ways—soft in some places, brittle in others, like the decay had warped it without care or thought.
The gate of Menagerie Hold loomed ahead, twisted open. Vaelrik's eyes narrowed.
Someone had been here.
The cracked crown sigil, once burned into the stone, was deeper now. Fresh. Carved again, recently. A warning. Or a claim.
Skarn growled low.
Vaelrik stepped through the gate.
Inside the Hold, the air was heavy and wet, filled with a dampness that shouldn't have existed. Vines crept along the walls, climbing towers, weaving through broken archways. The fortress he had claimed was changing, not just reshaped, but overtaken.
"Mournroot," Vaelrik called.
No answer.
They moved deeper. Forge's chains clinked softly as he walked. Nightspine faded along the edges, slipping between shadows. Karnyx remained close, his breath steady, limbs tense.
The courtyard waited ahead.
And there they found him.
Mournroot stood at the center, rooted to the stone, thorns spread wide in every direction. His form had grown darker, more jagged. Bark-like armor covered his limbs, and his eyes glowed faintly as they opened.
"You came back."
Vaelrik nodded. "Nightspine is free."
Mournroot's gaze shifted to the shadowed figure now perched silently along the far wall. He said nothing, but the thorns twisted slightly, curling inward.
Vaelrik looked around.
"This wasn't the plan."
"The land needed life," Mournroot answered. "It was dead. I gave it form again."
"You've given it too much," Vaelrik said. "It's choking the ground. We can't move through it. The next crown—"
Mournroot's eyes narrowed. "Is buried. Beneath us."
Vaelrik paused.
"You know this?"
Mournroot nodded once.
"In the deep roots. Beneath the Hold. One sleeps. Old earth. It can balance what I've done, if you wake it."
Vaelrik turned slowly, taking in the courtyard again. The thorns. The twisted stone. The heavy air.
He looked at Forge.
"How long has it been like this?"
Forge's voice was low. "Since you left."
Vaelrik's jaw tightened.
"Then we crown again. And we fix this."
Mournroot didn't speak.
The ground beneath their feet trembled faintly.
Something stirred below.
The tremor came again.
Not violent. Just steady. A pulse beneath the stone, deep and slow, like something breathing far below.
Vaelrik moved first.
He stepped into the center of the courtyard, eyes scanning the tangled floor. Vines and thorns coiled through every crack, spreading across the base of the ruined tower behind Mournroot. He could feel it now. Something buried below, pressing upward against the land like a heartbeat.
Nightspine moved along the wall, silent and half-formed. Its eyes followed Vaelrik's movement, watchful but calm.
Vaelrik looked to Mournroot. "Where?"
Mournroot raised one arm. The thorns at his feet twisted aside, revealing a narrow staircase that led downward. The stone was old, rough, and dark with decay.
"Deep roots," Mournroot said. "Old cellars. Forgotten since the Hold was taken."
Vaelrik didn't hesitate. He descended.
The air grew colder with each step. The walls closed in, choked with vines that seemed to breathe with him, their surface warm and slick. Skarn followed at his side, claws scraping stone. Valgrin waited above, too large for the narrow way. Forge came next, then Karnyx, chains swaying softly in the gloom.
The stairway ended in darkness.
Vaelrik lifted his hand. The Sovereign Brand pulsed with light, casting long shadows across the chamber. The air here was different. It was thick with moisture, not stale but alive. The ground felt soft under his boots, not stone or mud, but something else.
Mournroot's voice echoed faintly from above.
"It is here."
The ground shuddered.
Skarn growled low, stepping back.
Vaelrik moved forward.
A single, massive root cut through the chamber floor, splitting the stone and stretching into the dark beyond. Vines clung to it like veins, pulsing with a dull green light.
And beneath it all, something breathed.
Slow. Heavy. Deep.
Karnyx stepped beside Vaelrik. "It is not asleep."
Forge's chains slid free. "No. It is waiting."
Vaelrik approached the root's center. The Vaulting stirred, faint at first, then stronger. A thread of energy reached from the Brand in his hand, downward into the root below.
The beast was there.
Buried.
Not in chains or stone. The land itself had grown around it.
Vaelrik knelt, pressing his hand to the root.
The Vaulting surged.
For a moment, everything vanished. Sound, thought, sight.
Then came the image.
A beast, low to the ground, massive, with stone-plated limbs and a wide back covered in moss and tangled roots. Its breath stirred the soil. Its eyes opened, slow and watchful, and fixed on him.
The vision broke.
Vaelrik stepped back sharply.
Skarn steadied him, claws planted firmly.
"It knows I am here," Vaelrik said.
Karnyx nodded. "And it is deciding what to do about it."
The floor cracked.
Vines tore upward as the root split, and from beneath the stone, the beast rose.
It did not roar. It did not rush forward.
It climbed slowly, dragging its heavy body into the open chamber. Stone plates shifted across its back, layered like bark. Roots grew from its limbs and sank into the ground where it walked. Moss clung to its sides, glowing faintly. Its eyes opened, calm and distant.
Vaelrik stepped forward.
The Vaulting pulsed.
But the beast did not bow.
It watched him.
Waiting.
Forge's voice was low. "It will not yield to words. You must show it."
Vaelrik raised his hand.
The light of the Brand shone between them.
He did not speak. He did not threaten.
He moved.
Energy surged through him, power from every beast that had come before.
The strength of Stonefang Maul anchored his stance...
The heat of Emberwake Spiral burned in his chest...
The precision of Tempest Fang pulsed at his side...
The defense of Ironbind Mantle shielded his limbs...
The growth of Thornwake Pact stirred beneath his feet...
The force of Forgemaul Bastion steadied his grip...
The silence of Shadowbrand Surge whispered just beyond reach...
He took a step toward the beast.
It stepped forward as well.
One step. Then another.
They met at the heart of the chamber.
Vaelrik placed his hand to its chest.
The Vaulting opened.
Light burst outward.
And the Hold trembled.