The storm rolled in without wind.
No warning.
No shift in temperature.
No scent of rain.
Just clouds.
Thick.
Low.
Green.
Kael stood at the edge of the northern ridge, staring at the horizon.
The bottle in his pouch had begun to pulse hours earlier.
Now it was hot.
Not burn-your-skin hot.
Not feverish.
But alive.
Like a heart under glass.
Behind him, Sariel and Mero argued in hushed tones.
Herin had vanished after last night's incident.
No explanation.
No orders.
Only Varra remained.
Watching.
Always watching.
Vetch stood near the tree line, rubbing his fingers against his wrist, where the vines had touched him.
He hadn't spoken since that night.
Kael didn't look at them.
His gaze stayed on the field below.
The field that used to be the village's center.
Now hollow.
Sunken.
Dry.
No mist.
No birds.
No color.
Just an absence.
They descended at dusk.
No one told them to.
They just… moved.
As if drawn.
The village lay still.
The doors were closed.
Shutters sealed.
No lights in the windows.
Even the dogs were gone.
They reached the edge of the crater just as the sky cracked with silent lightning.
No sound.
Just light.
Green.
Then black.
Then nothing.
And then—
The ground breathed.
Kael felt it through his boots.
The way lungs expand after too long underwater.
The earth swelled.
Not upward.
Inward.
As if something below had finally turned over in its sleep.
The bottle pulsed violently.
Kael staggered.
Grabbed Sariel's arm.
She swore and steadied him.
"What—?"
But then she felt it too.
Everyone did.
Even Varra flinched.
At the center of the crater, something pushed through.
Not a creature.
Not a plant.
A spire.
Bone-white.
Knotted with veins of root and iron.
It rose in silence.
Three meters.
Then four.
And then it stopped.
Kael's mouth was dry.
He didn't speak.
Couldn't.
Because in that moment—
The bottle opened.
Not physically.
Not with sound.
But with memory.
His vision blurred.
His thoughts slipped sideways.
And suddenly—
He wasn't standing.
He was floating.
Darkness.
Then a forest.
But wrong.
The trees were hollow.
Their leaves whispered backwards.
And the soil bled green.
A voice—not spoken, but pressed—filled him:
"You carried me."
"You fed me."
"Now let me see."
Kael fell.
Not far.
Just back into his body.
Back to the ridge.
The bottle was glowing in his hand.
He didn't remember taking it out.
Sariel's voice cut through the fog.
"Kael. Put it away."
But the bottle didn't listen.
Neither did he.
The glow intensified.
A beam of green-gold light spilled toward the spire.
And it responded.
Not with light.
Not with sound.
But with—
Opening.
A crack split its surface.
Wide.
Deep.
Empty.
And from it poured—
Memory.
Kael saw—
A boy with no name.
A city drowned in roots.
A master who taught too much, then forgot why.
A bottle held by hands not his.
Centuries ago.
He dropped the bottle.
It clattered on stone, rolled, but didn't break.
The light faded.
The spire stilled.
The air cleared.
The storm vanished.
No one spoke.
For a long time.
Then Varra turned to Kael.
Not angry.
Not afraid.
Certain.
"You didn't bring it."
She stepped closer.
"You were chosen by it."
Kael didn't argue.
He couldn't.
Because he already knew.