5. Chapter Five Seren Veyr #3
Outside, wind worried at the shutters. Somewhere in the house, an old beam groaned as if shifting under invisible weight.
The lantern flame near her hand narrowed, then stretched tall and thin, blue at the heart.
She knew the Council’s language well enough to recognize fear when it dressed itself in classification.
She also knew enough of war to understand what men did when they began naming people as weapons before they had names, faces, bodies, wants.
That was what documents like this were for.
Seren folded the fragment slowly and tucked it inside her coat.
The root nearest the table curled tighter around the wood.
Seren grabbed the map just as the table cracked and the building shuddered.
Dust fell from the ceiling as a section of the wall near the entrance split with a piercing report, and more roots pushed through, pale against old stone.
They did not lash or strike. That made them worse.
Violence could be parried. Intention without haste could not.
Seren shoved the records into her pack, vaulted over a fallen shelf, and reached the door as the floor behind her buckled.
Outside, her horse startled and pulled against the reins.
“Easy,” she snapped, though whether she meant the horse, the roots, or herself, Seren could not have said.
The animal sidestepped beneath her, hooves striking hard against the wet road as another groan rolled through the archive station.
Seren caught the saddle and pulled herself up just as the sound deepened into the slow complaint of stone surrendering under pressure.
Behind her, one of the outer walls shifted inward.
Dust spilled from the fractured mortar, briefly turning the rain pale, and thin roots pushed through the foundation in searching strands.
They climbed over the broken stones without hurry, winding around beams and slipping through cracks until the entire structure seemed caught within a vast, careful hand.
Seren watched for only a moment before turning the horse toward the village.
The road had softened beneath the rain, and mud pulled at the animal’s hooves as she urged it forward.
Branches scraped against her shoulders where the trees crowded too close, and every few yards she glanced back, half expecting to see the roots following along the roadside.
Nothing moved behind her. That did not make her feel better.
By the time the first roofs of the village appeared through the rain, the agreed hour and a half had nearly passed.
Roran stood at the edge of the square with three soldiers arranged behind him and his hand resting near the hilt of his sword.
Rain had darkened his hair and gathered along the severe line of his brow, but he appeared not to notice it.
His attention remained fixed on the road with the grim concentration of a man who had already decided which orders he intended to break and was merely waiting for the final minute to justify it.
When he saw her, some of the tension left his shoulders. Not enough to improve his expression. Seren slowed the horse before him. Roran looked from her mud-streaked clothes to the bundle secured against the saddle, then back to her face.
“You had thirty-seven seconds left,” he said.
Seren swung down from the horse. “Then I was early.”
His stare suggested he was reconsidering whether relief had been warranted. “You are late,” he said.
“I am exactly on time.” She huffed, dropping from the saddle.
“You look like shit. Did the building try to eat you?"
“It was more of an argument,” she replied while dusting off fragments of stone and dust from her cloak.
“With a building?”
“With roots,” she clarified.
The silence that followed felt justified before Roran replied. “That is not better.”
“No, it is not.” There had been nothing ‘better’ about possessed roots, hidden messages, and government secrets.
Seren pulled the map from her pack and spread it across the nearest dry surface, which happened to be the counter inside the nearby fabric shop.
The red silk still lay on the floor. The gold coins remained scattered where no one had returned to collect them.
Roran leaned over the map. The lines of old rootways spread between vanished villages like veins beneath skin.
Seren pointed to each confirmed disappearance. “Whatever this is,” she paused to trace the map with her finger, “it follows an old system.”
Roran’s face deepened somehow even further. “Old systems? What does that mean?”
Seren’s fingers rested near the symbol marked beside Eastmere. The words from the temple rose again. “I don’t know,” she said.
For once, Roran did not make a comment. Seren folded the map carefully.
The village remained silent beyond the shop windows.
Someone knew what these symbols meant, and knew what kind of heir a dead empire could possibly still require.
She looked toward the mountains. If answers remained among the ghosts of Ashwood, then she would find them, and if the Council had buried those answers deliberately—she would drag them into the light by the throat.