Haoma's roots were an omnipresent part of Liresil, breaching into the city in vast arches, and reaching out into the surrounding landscape, tunneling through dirt and stone for miles in all directions. In that sense, they were not hard to find, and there were relatively few of them compared to many trees he'd seen, so they really didn't have much to search.

But that didn't change the sheer area that they encompassed. Even just within the city limits, a single winding root covered miles of ground, and Wyn had to track it over rooftops, through the city streets, and even underground—requiring a bit of trial and error. And considering that they didn't even know what they were looking for, it took time.

Wyn was crouched at the base of the third root he'd checked, fingers resting lightly on the bark. His mana sight was active, his vision painted in soft hues of green and blue—life and water mana, which seemed plentiful in the city. The root in front of him, wide as a city street, glowed faintly with a greenish-gold tinge, something similar to life, but not quite the same as the rest.

In any case, nothing abnormal showed up. No sanctum, no rot, and no visions like the previous one.

He stood, stretching his back with a groan, more from habit than need, and glanced up towards the sun. It was low in the sky, and Eryndor had warned them not to be out past dark. Wyn didn't disagree, considering all that had happened. For the same reason, he hadn't ventured out past the city limits into the forests outside.

But if they wanted to hide something, maybe that would be the place to do it.

He'd had such a thought while he was checking the second root, but the safety of the city was important. He'd bring it up when they met back at the estate. It wasn't yet time for reckless action.

It was time to head back. But he had to make a stop first. He'd promised Sadirah the prior day that he would show up, and he intended to keep the promise. He wouldn't stay long, he just couldn't, but he wanted to at least explain that something had come up.

Taking a short detour, he ended up at the gate of The House of Spring. The setting sun behind it shone through the gaps in the trees above, and the river below caught a sunbeam, turning the surface of the water into a shimmering fluid gold.

As he pulled open the latch and stepped onto the dirt path, something pricked at Wyn's attention. He hadn't turned off his mana sight since leaving the roots. There hadn't been a particular reason, he was just looking around with it while he walked. It was interesting, the way the world looked in his vision—water mana gathered above the aqueducts, and fire mana burned in the heat of the forge as he walked past a blacksmith. A strange sort of mana, silvery in nature, gathered by some of the amphitheatres, though he couldn't attribute it to any element he knew.

The House of Spring stood out in a different way though. The whole area shimmered in his sight, thick with a pearlescent mana suffusing the air. It was noticeably denser than any other part of the city he'd seen, and he couldn't help but wonder as to why.

He stood on the path, puzzled for a time, when the door burst open and someone rushed out to greet him.

It was Arnim, one of Sadirah's younger siblings, a boy with chestnut hair who had played 'knights' with Wyn the last time he'd come, and one of the children Wyn had cured.

"Wyn! Wyn!" He came running up, waving his arms.

"Hey Arnim! What are you…" Wyn grinned at first, but his face fell as the boy drew closer.

Arnim's expression was worried, his eyes wide. "Zavi is sick! He was really low this morning, but we thought it was just normal but we found him outside and the black covered all the waydowntohisfingersandhewasn'tbreathingrightand—"

"Arnim," Wyn grabbed his shoulders. "Slow down. Zavi is sick?" He was already walking to the door.

"The blackne—the withering spread all the way down his fingers. He's been in bed all day, too weak to move."

"Take me there."

Arnim nodded and ran towards the door, Wyn following behind.

As they entered, Wyn noticed that the building was quiet. No pattering footsteps, no laughter or bickering echoing in the halls. It was as silent as a grave.

They reached a closed door at the end of the hall, and Arnim pointed.

"That's it right there."

"Thank you Arnim."

Wyn started to walk past, but the younger boy muttered out a weak question before he did.

"Is Zavi…" Arnim looked up at Wyn, his eyes shimmering. "Is Zavi going to be alright? You healed me, so you can heal him too right? Zavi's mean sometimes but… I want… I want him to be okay."

Wyn knelt down, placing a hand on the young boy's head. He smiled gently.

"He's going to be alright. I'll do everything I can, okay? You're a good little brother, Arnim."

The boy nodded, sniffling once and wiping his eyes.

Wyn turned to the door and turned the knob. It creaked open and he walked inside.

Zavi's room was sparse, with nothing more than a bed and dresser sitting on opposite sides of the room. The dresser was covered in various odds and ends—a compass, a spyglass, a wide-brimmed hat. They all seemed unused, the remnants of a boy who might have once wanted to explore, before disease made it hard for him to move.

Sadirah knelt at the side of the bed, holding a spoon of soup to Zavi's lips and tilting his head up to drink it. The withering had crept all the way up his neck, rotting the skin all the way up to his lips, and two dark veins stretched up from there to his eyes. Wyn couldn't see beneath the blankets he was under, but he imagined his hands were almost completely engulfed as well. The boy wasn't moving, his eyes only half-open as he weakly swallowed the soup.

Sadirah turned to the sound of the door opening, her eyes puffy.

"Wyn?" Her voice was brittle, almost disbelieving. "You came."

"Of course," he stepped closer. "I promised I would. I just can't—well, it doesn't matter. I'm here."

"He didn't get out of bed this morning," Sadirah whispered. Her gaze fell back to the floor. "This is usually when Father takes them away. He says he doesn't… doesn't want the children to have to see the end."

Wyn crouched beside the bed. He took Zavi's hand, and though it was faint, oh so faint, Zavi's hand grasped his back. The boy wasn't gone yet.

"I'll help him," Wyn said.

"Wyn—" she started.

But he was already summoning the flames.

Even half-dead, Zavi immediately started screaming. His grip tightened around Wyn's as his body began to thrash.

Wyn felt the immense weight crushing him once more. But at the very least, he was ready for it this time, and he wasn't already tired from training. He braced his soul against it, fighting against every instinct that screamed for him to let go.

But he couldn't.

It didn't matter that he didn't know Zavi that well. It didn't matter that it might be impossible. He refused to bend, pouring more spirit fire into the void as it burned itself away against the black.

His spirit screamed, and his vision dimmed. It was so much worse than the aura compression cycle. He closed his eyes and ignored it, focusing every ounce of his attention on the battle raging in their souls.

He could feel it better now, amidst the agonizing pain. The withering had dug into Zavi's very soul, weaving itself in and trying to merge with him. The pain… yes the pain was it lashing out, trying to resist being driven out.

What are you? Wyn thought as he flooded the breach with spirit fire, a raw, guttural groan crawling out his chest. The withering raged, pushing back, and he grew lightheaded, he couldn't keep it up for any longer, how long had it been?

Stop! He screamed at himself.

Minutes?

Don't think about it! Just push!

Hours?

Don't thin—

He woke up on the floor, his head pounding.

"Wyn? Wyn!" Sadirah's voice was loud. As his vision gradually returned, he realized her face was right above his, lips slightly parted in worry.

He pushed himself up and away.

"Oh thank the spirits," she let out a deep sigh. "You just fell over."

Wyn rubbed his head, squinting as he burnt a little spirit fire to help ease the throbbing. He winced as he did—even his soul was tender. Still, better a little pain everywhere than the stabbing pain in his head.

You're an idiot. Eia said, a bit of concern leaking through despite her tone.

I know. But I couldn't just leave—

"How's Zavi?" Wyn jolted up as everything came back to him. He looked over at the boy on the bed who was—

Resting peacefully, the withering retreated back down to where it had been prior. His breathing was easier, and his eyes were open now. They were weary, but he looked around the room with actual life. They fell on Wyn for a second.

"Procrastinating death a bit longer," he said dryly.

Wyn let out a weak chuckle of relief. It seemed the boy was back to normal—well, for him. "So irresponsible. How long was I out?"

"A few minutes?" Sadirah guessed. "I was panicking. My heart can't take this, you know?"

"That's good…" Wyn trailed off as a spell of dizziness washed over him, and he fell back onto the floor. "...that's not."

His limbs felt like dough, and his mind felt about the same. He tried to rise anyways, pushing himself shakily onto his palms.

Sadirah put a hand on his back.

"You're trembling, don't push yourself, you have to rest." "Can't." He shook his head, glancing out the window towards the golden sky outside. "I have to get back. Meant to tell you, I can't stick around today."

"If you—why push yourself so hard then?"

"Wasn't really thinking about it," he whispered. Staggering, he got to his feet, swaying a few steps before Sadriah caught him under the arm, bracing him. "Thanks."

"Don't you care what happens to you?"

"Sure." It was hard to formulate a response. "Look, I really have to go. I can't get into it but—"

"Wyn, you can hardly walk."

"I'm fine, really," he insisted.

"Can you two get out of my room?" Zavi interrupted. "You're noisy."

Sadirah shot him a sharp look, but the boy just shrugged.

She grumbled something about men, and helped Wyn stumble out of the room. As soon as the door closed, she turned back to him.

"I'll walk you back."

Wyn clutched his chest. "I don't think I could sustain such a blow to my masculine pride."

"Your pride can shove it. You're injured."

"It's really nothing. This will fade shortly."

She didn't even look his way, just took his arm and started leading him out. "I'm walking you back."

"You're quite stubborn, did you know that?" Wyn smiled weakly.

"I'm the stubborn one?" She laughed.

Well, he had at least enough self awareness left not to try and argue with that.

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At Sadirah's insistence, they moved slowly through the lower tiers of the city together. His gait got steadier as they went, but she stayed just behind his shoulder, steadying him when he faltered. The sun was getting lower, but Wyn didn't rush. He really did feel crappy, and he thought they'd still make it in time.

As they passed by one of the amphitheatres, music caught the air—plucked strings, light percussion. A handful of performers stood on the stage at the bottom, some playing instruments as two partners danced in time to a wistful melody.

Their pace slowed as Sadirah's gaze caught on the sight.

"You know," Wyn said, "I never did ask you if you had any dreams of your own. You made me share my embarrassing tale, and yet I don't know all that much about you. So what's the scoop? Do you want to be a dancer or something?"

She turned to him, laughing into her palm. "I already told you, there's nothing embarrassing about wanting to be a hero. But no no. I just like the performances. I'm a member of the audience, that's all."

"Ah," he felt a little disappointed. "Surely there's something though?"

Sadirah didn't respond for a time. She brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face, glancing back at the performance. "In Taravast," she said slowly. "There's a cove, where one night each year, the sea is lit by thousands of dancing purple lights in the water. Well, that's what my friend used to say anyways. We always promised we'd go see it together when we got older…"

"I'm sorry," Wyn said, voice quiet. "The Withering?"

"No," Sadirah shook her head vaguely. "It was…" Something passed over her expression, and her eyes grew hazy for a moment. "Yes. Yes, it was the withering, of course."

There was silence between them, filled only by the sound of strings from the amphitheatre below. Wyn didn't press, it was too sensitive a topic.

"Well, what about now? Do you still want to see them?" he asked instead.

Sadirah rubbed her arms, and once more, Wyn wondered what lay beneath the thick bandages that wrapped from her wrists up to her shoulders.

"Maybe. But, I can't leave can I? Not with everyone here. Father says he needs me, he wants to cure them. He says I'm special."

"Why?"

"I don't really understand it," she admitted. Her voice grew quieter. "But if he says it, I trust him. Father was the first person, you know? The first to ever care. When I was younger, very young, I moved from one orphanage to the next. They said bad things happened wherever I was—things broke, people got hurt. They called me cursed. And I believed them." She shook her head slowly, smiling despite the story. "But he never did. To him, I was special. Maybe that was just because of whatever he thinks will help with his work, I don't know. In the end though, it doesn't matter. Father, Tine, Parisa, Norman, Zavi… Everyone in the House of Spring, I love them, more than anything in the world. I could never just leave them behind."

Sadirah looked back to the stage, a sad sort of smile on her lips. The dance was ending. The crowd clapped as the dancers bowed, then parted, each walking in opposite directions.

"I guess," she said, "If I still have a dream, it's them. I want to see them grow up—to find those dreams of their own. Tine wants to be a hairdresser, Parisa wants to become a riverboat captain, Norman wants to become a teacher… Arnim wants to be a spirit knight, just like you. Isn't that wonderful?"

She laughed to herself, eyes still on the performance.

Wyn couldn't see anything but her.

"I want that, more than anything. So I guess, there's just no room for anything else. Wouldn't that be far too greedy?"

The crowd slowly began to disperse, drifting apart like dandelions in the wind.

"Though," she continued, barely above a whisper. "I suppose someday I'd want to do that too. A dance, so much like that, always did seem nice."

Wyn's hands trembled.

Eia.

Wyn, you can't… She protested weakly. You're already exhausted.

But there was no barrier to his emotions at the moment, and she could feel everything he felt.

Please.

You're an idiot… A tremor of affection touched his soul. But then, I suppose that's exactly why I'm here.

Spirit fire stirred in his chest, and his soul protested faintly. He ignored it. He didn't need much, just enough. His vision sharpened, his fatigue fell away.

He took Sadirah's hand and started to run.

"Wyn?" She gasped, confused as he pulled her up a nearby stairwell. "What are you doing? You're still injured!"

"Just trust me." He urged her on, winding up another path, onto a walkway, higher and higher, out onto one of the middle platforms. Spirit fire trickled out of him into a small connection, then another, and another.

He turned a corner, passed shops, spires, people, until they were out on the edge of the platform. Eia was waiting on a secluded balcony, away from any other people. The city stretched out below, bathing in the embers of day.

Wyn let go of her hand, and she caught her breath, clenching her dress as she stared at him, completely bewildered.

"Are you going to explain what's happening now?" She asked sharply. "I don't appreciate being dragged around with no explanation you know."

In the air above him, a precious few ribbons of color began to gather, undulating as if in water. They shifted between colors, prismatic and everchanging. The song spirits began to sing a gentle tune , mimicking instruments and sounds Wyn could barely imagine, all composing an ever-familiar melody.

He held out a hand, and Sadirah's eyes widened. One dream, however small, completely in her reach.

"Will you let me show you?" he asked. Maybe it was arrogant, maybe it wasn't his place, but he wanted to see it. He wanted to see…

Slowly, Sadirah took his hand.

They began to dance.

It was awkward at first, a shoddy two-step. Wyn wasn't the best dancer, in fact, Corrin was probably better, much as he insisted otherwise. He knew the basics, enough to not embarrass himself, and that was about it. But he felt something through the spirits Eia had bonded, through the spirit song itself, he felt the song, and his body moved as though it knew just what to do.

Sadirah's eyes went to the spirits, wide with wonder. "It's so loud. I've never heard the song so loud before…"

Wyn smiled, and he realized that the spirit song felt somehow different. It was louder, yes, and projected by the spirits like this, even Corrin would have been able to hear it. But more than that, it had grown playful, as though it had a personality all its own, like it was watching him and playing along.

Eia… What is the spirit song?

Her voice came back in his mind, distant and trancelike. It is the voice of the queen…

Before he could even think about what she meant, the song picked up, and the dance along with it. Sadirah's dress swirled as Wyn's exhaustion vanished entirely, like snow in the summer's heat. Above them, Eia danced as well, fluttering like a leaf in the wind, and the song grew louder.

Wyn spun Sadirah around, and she let out a laugh, a real laugh. He laughed too, and they broke apart, each dancing on their own for a few seconds before coming back together.

They weren't skillful, they weren't perfect, but for that one moment, the song existed only for them.

Until eventually, the moment passed.

As they slowed, coming down from the high, Wyn felt the gentle ache returning, and he remembered the sun setting over the horizon.

But across from him, Sadirah was smiling, laughing, breathless. For that one moment, her worries had burned away with his own exhaustion. She was looking right at him, her cheeks flushed from the light exertion.

And for that one moment, Wyn had seen it.

A tiny, precious dream. A painless smile. The world, as it should be. As he could make it.

A dream of his own.

"You um… you have to get back, right?" Sadirah asked, still catching her breath.

Wyn grimaced, looking up at the sun. "Yeah… I think I'm going to be late, that's not good."

She saw his expression, and her smile fell the tiniest bit. "Is everything alright?"

No, that's not what I want to see. Damn it, that's not what I want to show her.

He smiled. "Yeah. Just a bit of trouble in the city, nothing to worry about. We'll take care of it. Just uh… try not to go out at night okay? Seriously."

"I'll trust it to you!" She gave him a teasing thumbs up.

"Does that include me getting home alright? Really, I'm late, and I should probably hurry back. I'm fine, as you can tell, and it's a short way from here… actually, you can see it from here, check that out!" He pointed to Eryndor's manor—it looked so small from above.

She looked him over once more, appraisingly. Her eyes seemed to dance with some indecision, but she finally caved. "Fine… but make sure to get plenty of rest tonight okay?"

"I promise."

They walked a short ways together, and then parted ways once more. The sun set, and Wyn walked back towards Eryndor's manor in the dimming city streets.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a leaf flutter down into his view, having fallen from one of the giant branches above. It drifted down onto the ground, and as he approached, he realized just how large it was. The leaf was almost as long as he was tall!

Towards the stem, it had begun to rot, a patch of black that reminded him so much of what he'd seen earlier that day.

His easy smile fell as he picked it up, folded it in half, and walked faster towards the manor, carrying it under his arm.

That simply couldn't be a good omen.

***

Zavier didn't wake that night—he'd never gone to sleep. As the stars stretched out across the sky, he slipped out of his bed, his legs shaking as he stood. He was so tired. He was always tired. Even if he'd felt a little better right after that boy Wyn had helped him, it didn't change the simple truth.

Zavier was dying.

There was no way around it. It could be delayed, but it could not be avoided. He'd known it for years now. Funny, he'd always thought that would help him accept it. But it never had. He felt cold just thinking about it, though he knew it was still a warm summer night.

He didn't want to die.

He scratched at his neck, fingernails digging into the skin. If he were normal, it might have turned red from the force he was applying, but it didn't. The withering didn't react. There was nothing he could do to cut or claw it out, no matter how much he'd tried.

It didn't even scar.

He staggered towards his door, glancing at the top of his dresser as he did. He should have thrown all that junk out. He'd thought so for a long time now, so why hadn't he? He wanted to throw the stupid explorers hat across the room, but what a waste of energy that would be, and Zavi didn't want to make noise right now.

Maybe some part of him still liked the idea of solving mysteries though, of exploring ruins and crypts. Because the first time a mystery had really presented itself since he grew too ill to leave the House of Spring, he jumped at it.

Zavi was very, very good at staying still. If there was one thing in the world he was best at, it was that, for all he moved quickly now. When he wanted to, he could be so still and quiet, people's eyes would pass over him as though he wasn't even there, his rotted skin even darker in the shade. That was why Father hadn't seen him.

That was why the four-armed man hadn't either.

What is down there? What is in that cellar?

There were sure to be consequences for this, but they didn't matter to Zavi. What punishment could he possibly be given? He'd probably be dead tomorrow—silver lining.

Father's room was across the building from his, but Zavi moved swiftly, feet light against the floor as he crossed the House of Spring and reached Father's room. Father was usually so meticulous, but something seemed to be stressing him lately. He'd been sleeping lightly—Zavi would hear him moving around in the middle of the night. That made this riskier, but he was out of time.

He opened the door to Father's room, wincing as it creaked, but the light snoring from the bed didn't so much as halt.

The key he'd seen from across the courtyard was hanging from a hook on the wall, a heavy iron key to match the lock on the door of the cellar, along with another, smaller one. He didn't know what that unlocked. Each step seemed louder than a firework as he crept over and took them down, exiting the room as quickly as he'd arrived.

The cellar door sat in the courtyard out front, an imposing slab of iron, secured with a huge, thick lock. How long he'd stared at it, gathering the courage to do what he was doing tonight. Since the day he'd seen that terrifying figure emerge from the door. A huge man with four arms and gray, inhuman skin.

Zavi looked down at the large key in his fingers. He looked at his arms, covered in blackened skin. The Withering.

He pressed the key into the lock and turned. There was a loud click. He pulled the door open.

A cold draft rushed up from below, and he shivered, feeling the chill once again.

He stepped forward, and found that the air was… wrong. It offered resistance as he pressed against it, like he was passing through syrup, and then wet cloth. The resistance grew greater, until it took real effort to push through.

His body was so weak. And yet he pushed anyways, harder, harder.

Nothing matters after tonight. He tried to tell himself. Nothing would matter after this.

Suddenly, the pressure vanished. Zavi stumbled forward, catching the edge of the stair below him just before he would've fallen.

He looked back behind him, but saw nothing. No strange cloth, no syrupy air, just the stars in the sky above.

"Strange…" he muttered. He felt something in his chest, a heartbeat.

He began to descend the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Though there wasn't the same resistance, something about the air still felt heavy. It was dark too, pitch black, unlit by any lanterns or stones. He only had the stars to see by, but his eyes slowly finished adjusting to the low light. Another step, another. His hands were shaking.

Why was he shaking?

Finally, he reached the bottom of the steps, staring down the hallway, at the end of which was another iron door. The smaller key he'd taken from his father's room felt hot in his pocket, that must be it.

He felt good. Very good. Better than he'd ever felt. His hands were still shaking, but he realized it wasn't fear, and it wasn't pain. He was filled with energy, a heat in his chest.

He took one more step forward.

His knees buckled.

The pain hit him all at once, blooming outwards from the heat in his chest, and his skin began to burn. He heard a scream, his, as the skin across his body started bubbling, like boiling water overflowing a pot. The black surged across the rest of his skin, and his veins felt like they were going to burst.

He clawed desperately at his chest as he collapsed onto the floor, his whole body shaking as though something were crawling through his spine. The Withering consumed him entirely now—his fingers, his feet, his face. His skin blistered and cracked. And yet even in the agony, there was power.

Something began to form inside of him, heavy, pushing outwards as it jostled for space with the rest of his organs, and something ancient brushed against his mind, like a massive shadow circling beneath the water of his soul, before disappearing entirely.

Zavier was dying.

A barrage of memories assaulted his mind—his first winter solstice at the house of spring, when he'd gotten the explorer's hat, playing in the courtyard with Norman and Mizi, singing with Sadirah as they walked through Liresil together, burying 'treasure' outside the city. His memories, his life.

Everything that made him, him.

He opened his mouth to beg for help. From the spirits, from the kings, he didn't care who.

But before he could, a voice sounded from behind him. Low, and so familiar.

"Can you hear me, Zavier? If you can hear me, squeeze your fist."

The pain wracked his whole body, he could barely think, but the voice gave him something to focus on. He mustered every shred of will he had left, and squeezed, his blackened fingers curling ever so slightly into his palm—no, his fingers weren't black anymore—they were white, like bone.

The voice inhaled sharply.

Zavi groaned, forcing words out through his chest. "What's happening to me?"

Echoing, mad laughter filled the hallways. Exuberant laughter, continuing for what felt like an eternity, before it finally died off.

"You," the voice whispered, giddy, "are becoming something more."

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